The snow hushed the city sounds and from far far off came a chorus
of howls and yelps. Mama, I hear wolves, she said. Hush, my dear.
There are no wolves near. It’s only the wind in the dried old cornstalks,
only the whine of the furnace turning on, said Mama. But the girl knew
no furnace yelped so high and wild, no wind howled so savage and
lonesome. She dreamt of dark fur speckled with glints of light like a
winter night sky, of a pool of warm red that spread across the fresh snow.
-from "little, red, wolf" (read more)
Pop music is a spell for staying young. I’m thirty-three
but you’d think I was seventeen, the way I’m carrying
on. My youth was all punk rock, girls who told me
about living fast and drinking in alleys. Told me to wear
ripped fishnets and leather jackets, fuck whoever I wanted
to, do whatever I fucking wanted to. Now that I’m older it’s
that tart pop that sings my song.
-from "Popular Magic" (read more)