Years ago, I heard a poet talk about "gift poems." Poems you barely remember writing because they seemed to have arrived from elsewhere, already fully formed. I certainly have stories like that and they're often my favorites.
I wish I could remember who it was who was talking about this because I cite them often. (Someone at the Kenyon Review Summer Writers' Workshops in 2013, maybe?) Thank you to whoever you are/were.
I know and adore Michelle Koufopoulos, so there's a chance I was predisposed to adore this essay, but oof. It's short and gorgeous it gave me chills that started at the very top of my skull. Michelle says it arrived to her, she wrote it down, she sent it out, and Brevity (the best of the best in flash nonfiction, as far as I'm concerned) snatched it up. I'm not surprised. It's a beaut, and a gift indeed.