The men say that the hills which gave my skinny legs strength will flatten out, before I find what it is I am looking for. They say the love I give to no one will dry out, like a raisin left out in the sun. The men say things they hope will give me a scare so thunderous, I will take what they offer. I thought I wanted to belong to someone, and I wanted it so much, it was the only thing I heard. Of course, I wonder where that longing has gone to.
Let me prophesy once more. Let it not be about Ruey’s passing. That was only a sick joke, told by a sicker mind. I will see into the future, telling of those that will become kings to the meek and the shy. There, slanted on a hill is an artist’s palace, where two or three will be invited, and they will change the world through provocative sounds and images. Joan of Arc will rise from the dead, and light Morrissey on fire. I will board a plane to Sweden, where I will live on literature, hazelnuts, and the kind of husband I never thought I wanted.
I am not the same these days, but cannot say which are the changes that have taken place.