Dear Kiernan, my love,
It felt good to laugh with you the other night, our bodies little porch lean-tos under the Cancer crescent Moon. God's toenail, a friend’s dad liked to say, though when I was little and hoping to be a poet, I always had the same line bumping around my head when the Moon took on its saber slant: "I want to cut my teeth on that pointy moon," I'd mutter to myself or write in my journals or, once, send off in an actual poem to be rejected, thank God, by very many places who rightfully cringed at the confessional teenagerdom that I had mistaken for Plathian art.