I water Edith’s baby, ugly and foreign. Contemplate the intimacy of caring for a stranger’s plant, lie down on her crêpe bedspread and hug myself to death but my arms aren’t long or strong enough to make me feel contained.
If not contained, then perhaps the opposite. To sprawl and spill out. To be received by the sea without clothes. To be received by a trampoline without clothes. To spin and spin and be received by the gutter. To scream loudly into the weird underground wind of the subway. The stale breeze that makes things float around, like the long fine hair of a barrel-chested woman: filaments that reach out and attach to narrow woollen shoulders. I see this happen but no one else sees this happen. Connected! Oblivion!
Tonight I sit on a lawn chair on the porch and paint my nails sea cucumber. Inside, my mother cuts plums. The rain lets up and the grass is so green it hurts to stare at it and the bare skin of my arms has that humid film like when we ate mussels in a downpour in Phnom Penh, just shy of the falling water, under the canopy.