Memory becomes present reality as wind caresses my sun-seared skin.

They’re here, in the way water wraps around us,

The sounds we made, the way they knew just how to handle us,

how to coax from us our submission.

The epic of how they fucked us written in goose bumps across our skin.

If you were wondering, this is where we go

eyes glazed over

when wind comes.

That is a gift of this disembodied suburban moment,

the surreal sticks to our skin, persistent, hiding in our folds with so many grains of sand.

We surrender.

The relentless whine of endless lawnmowers pierces our reverie.

I wonder what Big Water makes of it.

If her ears bleed. Her children never sleep.

How she manages to take us in,

is beyond me.

We sip gin and maple sap from a jar bearing the label

STUFFED OLIVES

cupboards bursting full of emptied mason jars are a distant memory

of a home we haven’t known for a week.

We make do.

STUFFED.

And we’re back.

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