When I was a child I carved my name in the sand with my toes.

Later, I wrote tortured poetry, reams of the stuff.

It saved me.

In my twenties I was a musician,

and songs rose up and through me like tides,

like hunger,

like blushes.

In my thirties, I wrote press releases in Silicon Valley

and was very handsomely paid

thank you.

Now in my forties, I just write.

Emails to teachers, status updates, blogs,

and pages and pages of the unpublished novel of course.

Words are my common-thread, they are my signifiers.

Words are the bones of me.

And it only makes sense that someday,

what will remain are a few choice ones carved on a rock,

although my preference would be a tree.