“I heard she ran off with that boyfriend of hers,” I overheard from Ms. Avery as I tried to
get lost in the crowd. “You bet,” she said in response to some mumbling from Mrs. Jorge, “heard
it from Jim Francois’ dad.”
​          “Poor Jim,” Mrs. Jorge shook her head. “That boy is good for this town; too good to be
have been pining over a girl like that.”
​          ​“Now that she’s left maybe he’ll get his priorities straight.”
​          I lost the conversation as others filled in the growing space between us; their words
overtaken by the hundred others speaking around me. From above, the crowd must have looked
like a flock of starlings. There were groups of people talking among themselves, but no group
lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes before merging and morphing with a new group and
eventually splitting into new circles of gossip. The movement was sustained by the need for
everyone to make sure that everyone else knew they were there; lots of big waves across the
crowd and “Oh, I just knew I’d find you here!”
​          I finally found Cheryl; a stationary point amid the ever-flowing crowd. She was wearing an
old pair of ripped jeans; they could have started blue or black but only she would ever know. Now,
they were grey-white and nearing shapelessness. Despite the heat, she had on a thick black hoodie.
There was a hole in the shoulder where she had ripped off whatever branding the sweater had.
​          She stood out from the others in the crowd, if not for her clothes, then for her porcelain
skin. Everyone else was varying shades of orange or brown, brought on by the dry August sun. I
walked up to her without saying a word and gave her a reassuring squeeze on her forearm. She
responded by nudging her shoulder into my chest.

please tell me what kind of woman 
you are looking for. 
varnish over my body 
in cold storage,
let me suck milk 
from a ribcage.

treading water is fine until 
a bloated pomegranate 
needs tending.
I could grow plump on horse meat
or an allowance of oysters.

my passport is a fetal bull. 
crowning,
I offer you memories of apron, horseradish, 
razor blade,
the price is ambivalent to me.

my name is not an animal’s head,
a cup bearing black tar, 
a harvest of mink stoles.
​
I would be an intimate citizen,
a moonless pursuit, 
an absolute sculpture.