/ by Laura Kochman

I am beloved and she is mine. I see her take flowers away from leaves     she puts them in a round basket     the leaves are not for her     she fills the basket     she opens the grass     I would help her but the clouds are in the way     how can I say things that are pictures     I am not separate from her     there is no place where I stop     her face is my own and I want to be there in the place where her face is and to be looking at it too     a hot thing

—Toni Morrison

I'm embarrassed to say it's taken me this long to read Beloved. I feel like an idiot about it. What is there to say but that it is beautiful and drowning?