unfurl ovenbird We are sold a tale of progressive decay, our bodies subject to the stretching force of gravity, our skin mottled by too much sun. I’m told that I will get further and further away from whatever “beautiful” is, that I can expect the currency of my face to diminish until it isn’t worth anything at all, until I have to pay people to see me. I am told to fight for the vestiges of youth, with serums and red light and invasive procedures, whatever is necessary to smooth away some of what has accrued through decades of living. But what if I’m not aging? What if I’m wilding? My body finding its feral form. I watch my eyebrows send wiry stems towards the sun. Each one a fern frond, a fiddlehead, a moth wing wet and unfurling. I watch a river of silver meander through my hair. I feel myself pulled down towards the earth—my belly soft, emptied of life, my fingers curving into claws, my back the arc of an angry cat. What if I don’t care if I’m beautiful? What if all I want is to be free? 260813 what's it to you? who go blather from