Why does a woman

of a certain age raise 
eyebrows when she says things
like That's dope, or This carousel
of life would be so much more fun
to ride if they gave you the dark-
maned stallion and not the sparkly
little pony. I mean I have nothing
against sparkly. But aren't you too
just a little bit tired of how every
store that hasn't renewed its lease
at the mall has been turned into
a selfie wall? Giant wings, a painted
swing under a fake bower, rainbow
umbrellas with glow-in-the-dark
raindrops. My hero is Yayoi
Kusama, who has always been
a woman of a certain age
even from the time she was ten,
when she obliterated the image
of her mother in a kimono
with her signature army of
hallucinatory dots. Or
the Bakunawa, typically
misunderstood in all the tales
that describe how it swallowed
the seven moons and would not
give them back. So much
brilliance, one for every
day of the week— who
wouldn't be enamored?
How is anyone to endure
eternity without a store
of heat and light, a steed
with muscled flanks?

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