Elizabeth Hadaway

“The grapes he foraged set my teeth on edge.I want to hack through their wild vines, dissectthis anger. It's a tangle: steep hill strungwith old foxgrapes among the hardwood, toughenough to swing from (proto-bungee rushthat's like a fit of rage, adrenalinalive inside me), or to strangle in.Vines choke.”

“The crunch of bone is what religion thrives on.”

“Get up to turn your chair away from hera few degrees. And look at me. I maybe someone else's longed-for phantom. Pourme some more wine; tell me the story; listen:it's a dreary wish to want the whole world ghostless.”

“You're from somewhere, aren't you?”