Kerry saw angels in her lettuce and a placenta in her shower, but the postman showed up with a letter sealed with beeswax. Before she could deal with the placenta, she got caught up with her hand stuck to the beeswax letter.

Kneading through the ghostly ink of a love letter… It was meant for another and written in blood in the trenches of Normandy by a dead pair of forgotten dog tags, meant for a lover fighting a workforce war back at home.

The stranger’s love was the most familiar thing in Kerry’s life. And yet, at the same time, it was wholly unfamiliar until this moment. Where had she been hiding it? Was it hiding behind the hyperborean eyes of her stoic father? Or had it been stored way deep inside her in a vault with no code to unlock it?

All of these questions surely made her reconsider her decision to take up a career in placenta sitting. Those squirmy little seeds of hope smell of peace and frogs. They keep Kerry busy for the time being and it's a noble living.

Day by day, new weather comes. Kerry belongs to be loved at all those pairs of lovers know. But when you smell of placenta and tears, I'm sure you feel like brown paper bags stuffed with glue. What can you do but dream and clean up the afterbirth?

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