by Alison Luterman
I was the wild-haired girl by the side of the road, thumb out, steering a jittery course between terror and boredom. Hours later, if you cared to look, you'd find me rattling around in the back of a truck, carried headlong into the next thing. It was just my luck to have been born when I was, on the cusp of a chaotic abundance, and, as my sister said, I was the fastest sperm, or maybe just the most persistent. What luck I've had since then, to sleep in the wet spot, to bruise easily, to laugh till I fart. What luck that my heart splintered into ten million silver needles each one on fire to embroider love-stained and prisoner of the self on red satin pillows. Lucky to live a lifetime in the years between losses, to lie awake at night, wide-eyed with the doleful sirens and the restless mice; to sweat a misspent word, to rue the past, to have a past to rue. Luckiest of all: to have yearned mightily, and learned a little, to have lived inside desire like Jonah in the whale, perpetually greedy and hopeful, making a lifetime out of each mouthful. And then to find you! Luck at the eleventh hour; undeserved, red-faced, panting, and overworked guardian angel, a messenger from all we can't see, a note telling us that love is real was here all along, a forgotten blue-and-green marble in our back pocket, an exact replica of the living world.