Jan and I went to a masque as each other.
We swapped interiorities, bandied psyches
about. Hell has indeed frozen over: I’m nice
for once, said Jan-as-me. I grinned, Janly.

Huck—Huck Elvis, I’s reck’n you jis tip the raf o’ve wit dat shak’n.
Hang it all, Jim.

I would never compare
you to a cookie
falling from the sky
a pure Oreo
or a virgin Lorna Doone,
unbitten, only flaky at the edges,
me, running to catch you
before you crumble.

When Jonathan was born, I knew that something inevitable was coming. It was something that I dreaded more than anything else. It was something so sinister, so evil, so clearly designed to oblige a parent to act against their will just to fit in. It was the baby dedication.

I wanted my baby to walk this earth with Jesus by his side; don’t get me wrong. But I didn’t want to have to tell everyone in the church because quite frankly, it gets boring hearing all of these people wish the same thing for their kids. However, I wrote the dedication, and I gave it in front of the congregation with the pastor standing by my side. It was all for the sake of baby Jonathan.

Although Alison eventually made her debut at the Idlewild Ball, she was not to the castle born; moreover, when Dr. Grum called Alison his “little princess,” we thought of Elinor Donahue on Father Knows Best, who made us gag. We were not particularly rebellious, but we were savagely curious, and curiosity killed the cat.