Was it the way the leaves fell,

streamlined, as I burst

bawling onto greenery,



or the first time sunlight peeked

through dark branches overhead—



or the reddish-purple skin

stretched over my sleeping body,

Let the Rain Keep Falling

O birthplace rain     I take what I can from

your mouth,    delivering myself

             from spring seeds,

wetting my tongue

The ink darkens, leeching my energy as I trace an index over the text. A rejection letter from California Institute of the Arts, and best regards. No better than every other art academy who also shelved my portfolio.

The letter lands neatly in the bin. I stalk to my studio.

claymation in six scenes.

1.

Margaret finds out she is made of clay when she presses into the crook of her elbow and pulls the flesh right off.

2.