tell you about the woman at the vintage bazaar in Providence, even though it’s true. That when she held the dress out for me to step into, I felt her fingers brush along my neck. I felt her hold me, in that second when the fabric bunched in front of my face, muffling for a moment the world. I don’t want to tell you how much of me drew towards her, pulling at the sleeves, cinching the waist, her touch—without prurience or expected reciprocity—reaching towards the soft animal of me, without thinking of it, the most natural thing.
Sara Siegel is a small bundle of love and cynicism. She writes and makes art in Western Massachusetts. sara-siegel.com