New York Public Library, Edna St. Vincent Millay archives Because Norma saved even the grocery lists, it was no surprise to find a lock of hair coiled and glued loosely into the scrapbook, crimped and rusty, more weird and alive than any calling card or photograph, letter, erotic or otherwise, sweeter than the candy kisses fixed upon the page. I shouldn't have touched it, but in those days I was always hungry. Despite the rare books librarian lurking, I set my thumb against it. Weightless, dusty, it warmed at my touch. By 1949, all the grocery lists affirmed the same fixations: Liverwurst, Olives, Cookies, Scotch. Liverwurst, Olives, Cookies, Scotch, penciled on squares of insipid paper. By 1950, unsteady on her feet; by year's end, dead at the foot of the stairs. As I placed the book of relics back into its archival box, a single copper wire fell from the page, bright tendril on the table. I lifted it, casket of DNA, protein, lipids, and still Titian red. Really, was I wrong to swallow it? Copyright © 2017 Ann Townsend. Used with permission of the author. |
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