It was a dreadful time: no rain for 26 days and the swamps began to dry up—

a terrible sign in a folktale. Trees, naked and looming. The barista got my order 

wrong, and the pistachio ice cream was actually pecan and lime. Alone in this 

city, I could not sleep—how’s the writing going? Have you told anyone about

being published? A woman on the train complimented my rings, asked if I’m a

hand model. I told her I’m writing a novel—in front of me the page read when I 

was seven… I’ve saved up all my anger, stacked it next to the books on my nightstand, 

nowhere to carry it anymore. In a daydream of another universe—I’m waiting still. 

For proof that my blood is warm. I was brilliant,  you said, and then you got on a bus 

to Boston.  Last Sunday, at the farmer’s market, there was a sale on okra. I looked 

over my shoulder to find you and truly forgot—I have not seen you in five years. 

Don’t take over the world, a tear ran down my cheek and into the cement. I went 

to Philadelphia yesterday, to see the crack in the replica of the Liberty Bell. 

How meticulous people are, how careful when change is imminent. Two or more 

particles can be brought together and become fundamentally linked so it is no 

longer possible to describe them independently of each other. I wonder if the sun 

is still up where you are. I am remembering my life, how it will begin soon. I’ll wait 

by the bus stop, run my shoe over the grooves in the pavement. Soon. It’ll happen.