Her body is a difficult sister, and she loves her, and hides her
somewhere in herself safe from harm. She's barely coasting
into a paycheque, stuck on empty. Her blue eyes frozen
green in the low-lit ATM. I need a way to measure the
distance. I need a way to say why, out of breath or out of
key, her voice resonated in me. Her body is a difficult sister,
and she loves her, and hides her somewhere in herself safe
from harm. Her night shift is over, she's writing you a
postcard to say that she's okay and it's raining there again.
My fury's rising faster than bus-fares. Could someone clarify
why there's no structured narrative? no neat story-line to
explain? Wish on everything. Pray that she remains proud
and strange and so hopelessly hopeful. (Wishes and prayers
are the way that we leave the lonely alone and push the
wounded away). She shoplifts some Christmas gifts, and a
bracelet for herself, and considers phoning home. Has some
quarters in her hand. But she sits down on the sidewalk and
bites her bottom lip, and spends the afternoon willing traffic-
lights to change.