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The espresso version, in third person: Never was a skinny girl, always was a small girl, always had to jump. Wrote on her mattress at night, burning adolescent smoke and fire. It started here, with heat and brooding and a Jim Morrison crush, big as a movie. Years pass: She teaches addicts and hurt children the love of the pen. She writes a chapbook called Hush to talk about addiction, the slosh and snuff that nearly rubbed her out. Years pass: She writes articles and stories about people that burn. Bright. Sometimes too bright, but heat attracts her. Becomes an editor at a shiny magazine, the Wasatch Journal. Two years and the journal folds as the country is folding. Then a baby comes, faster than a speedball. Another. Who knew she would be like spring in this sallow time? These children, these little sprouts. And the boy child is different, has more chromosomes than most boys, has a soft heart. A rocket ship. Her voice explodes with Afterbirth. She will shout from the stage. These poems, this blood-letting. She will shout as an offering. You will hear her.