Ah, Sylvia, the brute, brute heart of a brute like you.
The self-doubt you spoke of creeps in and sits inside my bones.
Help me to have the “outgoing guts” to write about everything in life and to have the imagination to improvise.
I want to split my life open like a ripe juicy watermelon and watch the pink juice and black seeds run together.
I want to sit in the cornucopia of life’s left ear, out of the wind, counting the stars of all colors, not just the plum and the red.
Help me today, and on all dark days, to unclench the owl’s talons from my heart
so that even among the fiercest flames
I can write about – everything.