My Tender HeartMolly Tenenbaum
To dough, take a biscuit cutter: lift the lid. It's gooey jelly under. Pot pie, jam tart, hot bun's inner butter. Its evidence is that I think in syrup and batter. It's shapeless, abashed, a dribbled bib. Loose as the tongue's unmouthed blob. From here you can't see the whole watershed, or if underground magma boils blue or red, or the violin, though arpeggios weep from an afterschool house down the street. Pends from a stem in snowdrop fragility: starry eyes, forget-me-not, the checkered lily, and like the starred windshield of my car, old, that must keep running. "Sure," says my genius mechanic, pointing to his own in the dark through the shop door, far older than mine, and he's kept it roaring four hundred thousand miles and counting.
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