People in the art world ravel around the globe to see them; they can become obsessions. I wanted to know what makes them so.
And it was beautiful. The night began and years passed within the / forest. Coughs of trees and the blue snow light tapped the window. / Your shape for the window.
"I am invincible, my body a quiet kind
they look like tiny, ripped-out human hearts.
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The doctor shows me cross-sections of my breasts on her computer screen. The images look like something from the Weather Channel, a satellite tracking a monochrome storm.
“You see here,” the doctor says, pointing out a line of tiny white spots, innocent as grains of rice. “And also here.”
At New York City street fairs, there’s always a booth claiming: We will write your name on a grain of rice.
Why write someone’s name so tiny it can’t be seen without a magnifying glass?
Who perfects an art like that?
When the doctor shows me the cross-section of my breasts, the grains inside, the microscopic tears that beckon my death, I think: Oh they’re pretty.