ABSTRACT
In “I Once Heard That the Bones of Birds Are Hollow” I anticipated what I feel now. It makes me feel curious and goosebumpy to look back at the accuracy of the poem. If I do say so myself, it holds up pretty well. And I do tremble at the recall of those red hot days of lust and energy. To make love is just not accurate – to make lust is a more accurate way to describe the parties, the alcohol, the laughter, the loud music, and the exchanges that occurred at the end of the day – at the end of the shift and sometimes in the supply closet. There is nothing quite like lusty sex to remind you that, in the midst of death, you are pulsatingly alive.
