Dear Grace,

When I was small, I didn't want to be a princess. Instead, I thought, I’d much rather be a lawyer and imagined myself bent over a large mahogany desk absently handling a pair of oversized glasses, the ear tip of one arm resting between my lips. I'd lean closer, tracing the lines in the thick file, trying to incline the balance of justice. In my childhood, all castles were fixed firmly to earth.

But now, Grace, I fall into reveries on far away lands, fantasies of dresses formed from raw silk. Why now do I tangle myself in thoughts of bestowed title and unearned privilege? Perhaps the arrival of a prince piqued my imagination too; maybe a June wedding under the golden Tuscan sun warmed my skin and reminded me to dream. Are my feet finally large enough to fill your grown-up slippers?

As I sit before a sprawling desk, fingertips poised, you—sweet Grace—are once again on the screen. I begin to assemble the pieces of your editorial. I puzzle together your pretty face, your signature uniform, your inescapable public being and I think to myself that the life of a princess is a far more fitting fantasy for a grown woman, a woman already well impressed by sadness and beauty, hope and possibility.

Archive Photo: Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly

The Ninth

Pin pricks of exploding light illuminate
goosebumps on exposed flesh
a Catherine Wheel whirls easily across an open sky.

And knowing breathes that this too is short-lived and unbearably lovely
The quietly whispered love to a sleeping partner
(perceived by the sleeper with one foot in dream and one ear at ready)
is for both, bravery and fear.

We hope these softly woven words will hold the night close
heavy against the skin like a child's blanket,
its threadbare membrane drawing the thin line
between us two and the imminent wolves.

And we cling desperately to one another beneath it
afraid of the space between our bodies
fighting against the looming disconnect
the howling dark that opens wide and swallows us in morning.