I imagine her to be speckled with bursts of unnameable colours and animal motifs, to be decked in sensuous membranous swirls of wealth, to be tattooed and embroidered with hieroglyphic secrets. I imagine she jumps, curls, unwinds, and throws her limbs here and there, like a figure skater at the bleeding edge of victory. I bet she is dramatic, overwrought and carefree. How else could she, like the blossoming flower, attract the pollinators, the suitors whose gifts offer the next? How else does she catch attention?
Just like flowers are wounds of the environment, grief is the force of attraction, the radical opening up of the once closed, the luxurious peeling back of the skin, the indecent proposal to wander away from the known, the awkward grace of instability that touches all things. No, she is not grey and uninteresting. She is the technology of the new…the tenderness of the yet-to-come, the biological signal that the body is open to the wilds beyond its fences. She glows seductively.
