Spinster loves you. In her house. With her teeth.
Spinster’s busy. Called, squints letters into shapes.
Spinster whistles her blue dog back from the bluedark woods.
Spinster is having a Vision! so (please) Leave Her Be.
Spinster's house is smaller than your house, and your house, and yours yours yours yours yours.
Watching Criminal Minds, Spinster is glad she never married a sexual sadist who keeps eyeballs in little jars.
Other creatures Spinster’s never lawfully wedded: the State; Deans of Humanities; bank accounts; 6 am.
Spinster goes around all day thinking vitreous humor, vitreous humor as she looks and looks.
Hey, Spinster, say several men. Spinster responds only to those who suck her nipples just so.
Spinster considers writing a manifesto about authority, but Spinster *is* authority.
Spinster owns time and slices it like the sweetest pear tartlet.
Spinster is never lonely. Well maybe sometimes lonely, but for that there are kind men + women + wine + rivers + Visions.
Spinster "sleeps with monsters" and June's been quite the manticore, heavy-pawed muse trundling through her sleep—
To stay fully Spinstered, Spinster has an IUD. By night she sings to the egg as it leaves her body: Hallelujah little egg! Godspeed little you in your fine blood-apparel! Adios my sweet petite iron-tanged bomb-to-nowhere!
Spinster is bleary from staying inside your book so long, but thank you.
Spinster is fond of pink lingerie.
Spinster is standing in the desert. The desert is standing around Spinster. They exchange spare molecules.
Spinster thought of having an imaginary daughter, but the thinking made her tired. Within minutes she was leaving her imaginary daughter on the orphanage steps, note pinned to her sweater signed, Fondly, yr Spinster.
In this Vision, Spinster hangs out with radioactive wolves who are also on their way to becoming something Haute Nouveau.
Spinster is mighty fond of apricots.
Spinster's new lover has bought her a diamond. Not a ring, but still. Ruh-roh, says Spinster to the white dog, their brows furrowed in cross-species commiseration.
It's possible that Spinster is secretly the taxidermist of your hopes and dreams.
There’s a covert op designed to unSpinster Spinster. It’s code name is TheWholeFuckingHistoryoftheWideWideWorld.
Spinster, says the silence, hiya.
Silence, says Spinster, manna.
They make out for a while.
Spinster knows her breath is a mimetic representation of clouds, and that clouds are a meontic representation of mystery, a barely-there of the there-but-where.
In the movie where Spinster hangs herself from the tree because Spinster, Spinster knows as soon as the swinging blue corpse enters the frame that the screenplay was written by a man.
Spinster wants to literalize your desire inside her mouth.
Spinster pawns her watch to buy herself a hair comb, her hair to buy herself a watch chain. Bald, she hangs the comb from the chain and proceeds clangingly, receiving several compliments.
Of course Spinster makes mistakes! Is only a human Spinster! Her biggest mistake was an ancient riverman with womanly attributes.
In all seriousness, Spinster knows she has gotten born at exactly the right moment in exactly the right place, knows there are a few billion girls who cannot construct an Agentic Spinsterhood, girls who—denied their Spinster destinies as soon as blood starts to leak from them—may choose to set themselves on fire.
Spinster needs an epoch to think about that.
Spinster resolves to Spinster better harder faster. In the phraseology of her childhood, she has the technology.
Spinster sleeps by the river all the livelong day.
Uh-oh: again Spinster kills what botanists say even a monkey could water.
In a rare but pleasing meeting of word origin, insect (sort of), and kismet, Spinster is suggestive of spinning, of weaving, as per spider, as per web, hence many last names.
Spinster concubines the whiskey. Spinster courtesans the empty lot. Spinsters jezebels the very air until it is much more interesting air.
Spinster considers that the original Spinsters were holy women. To declare Full Spinster, you’d show up at God's embassy, ask for asylum, and wait to be let in.
Spinster knows that all paths, if chosen, are gorgeous, but secretly feels it’s no coincidence that our greatest poet was a Spinster.
When Spinster passes another Spinster on the street, or at baggage claim, certain passwords and gestures are exchanged.
Spinster's lover says she talks in her sleep.
Spinster does not think she is holy in the manner of, say, rivers or Radioactive Wolves, but really she's fine with weird descriptors.
Spinster's earliest memories of Spinster involve a tree and a book.
How to Spinsterblock: Alexandria the face of all the earth into one vast word-fire.
Even then, though, Spinsters will make ink by spitting into ash and writing on the surface of their bodies, then pressing their bodies onto yours until you are assigned a Dewey decimal number so that people may borrow you.
Spinster worries she is becoming an isolate, a language with no discernable roots.
There were, sure, a few months after the ancient riverman when Spinster full-Havishamed the situation, but then she remembered that Havisham was not a real person, let alone a real Spinster, so got off her ass and went for a walk.
Spinster drives home pleasingly fucked/lies down in the backyard, looking up.
Sometimes Spinster feel like a baobab, ancient plus a little topsy-turvy.
Spinster loves how silence plumps up the house like a crescent roll.
Spinster licks peach juice off her hand.
Deborah was a prophetess.
She sat under a palm tree
and knew what you’re doing tomorrow.
All around, armies.
A city burned etcetera.
Tomorrow you’re buying pants.
Deborah is a terrible name for a prophetess.
She knows you think so.
Chariots, she says, sucking a plum stone.
Scorpions and nettles.
Toy guns in gumball machines, says Deborah, wondering
what the words mean.
A drunk sleeps next to the well.
Sometimes she wonders what’s prophesy, what’s
merely obvious. Drought,
says Deborah, her throat drying out.
Squinches up her brow and knows
your woman will be unfaithful.
Locusts arrow out of the sky, down her dress.
Tsk, says Deborah.
Old men bring offerings: dead deer, dead
hen, some resin.
Deborah is exhausted from telepathically
excising sorrow from a shepherd
She wants to screw oblivion
but your future keeps showing up!
She lets the goat lick salt from her palm.
She knows the man will have the tent-pin jammed
into his skull, but chooses
not to warn him. Who am I
to reroute history, says Deborah, employing
the metaphor of the stone placed in the current.
The goat wanders off.
Deborah sees the wires running under
Deborah knows there’s a mouse in the cistern.