What I hate most about going out is that everyone always looks like everyone else to me. I know that person. No I don’t. I remember you. I’ve never seen that person before. Or have I. How did you not see that, he says to me, the body under the yellow tarp in the middle of the highway on our way to work. Because everyone looks like everyone else, I don’t say.
she slathers herself with more coconut oil and leans back
in her chair, her words falling out of her head onto the grass
to wriggle like larvae, something half-formed–there is an orange
prescription bottle permanently glued to her left hand, it makes
refills easier, she just goes to the pharmacy counter and holds
out her palm. she can shake them gently to soothe herself when
she wakes in the night with breath shortened, not like bars of
music but a hollow percussive rattle. the coconut oil drips
down her legs, pooling at her feet, congealing like the blood
in her veins. these days in suburbia might drive her mad with
their hedge trimmers, lawn mowers, grass edgers–but here,
in the sunlight, she smells wonderful and soaks in the sun like
a mermaid on the rocks. the neighborhood boys go past on their
bikes and wonder why the air smells like burnt macaroons.