"Grief is not apparel. Not like a dress, a wig, or my sister's high-heeled shoes. It is darker than the man I love, who in my fantasies comes for me in a silver six-cylinder chariot. I walk the waterfront curbsides in my sister's high-heeled shoes. Dreaming of him. His name still unknown to my tongue. While I wait for my prince to come, from every other man I demand pay for my kisses. I buy paint for my lips, stockings for my legs. My own high-heeled slippers and dresses that become me. When he comes, I will know how to love his body, standing out here on the waterfront curbsides, I have learned to please a man. He will bring me flowers. He will bring me silk and jewels, I know. While I wait, I'm the only man who loves me. They call me 'star' because I listen to their dreams and wishes. But grief is darker. It is a wig that does not rest gently on my head."