02.27.01
12.27.03

Dear Margaret,
Yesterday during the afternoon seance my
dining room table burst abruptly into blue and
purple flames, and the walls were badly
scorched by the time a battalion of sparrows
had spit enough water down to put it out.
Yesterday I was fired from a terrible job.
Really, what do you see me doing anyways?
Summoning other people’s ghosts for the rest
of my life? Lighting cigarettes and waxing
floors? Do you believe people can be
satisfied with artificial fires? When will
tv screens learn to cook my dinner? My
boyfriend is waiting to find out if he
will be a teacher. I’m not too sure
at all exactly what I’m waiting for.