We met in the most interesting place in America
which, it turns out, is any place that has a corner store.
All those black pills at the counter, bagged in twos,
like Snow White’s eyes in “Snow White: the Comic Book.”
I had a theory about oil and wine emulsions re:
the perfect glaze but was not ready to share it. And he said,
You look like the kind of girl who has a cat. And I said,
Who doesn’t? All that steady lamplight turning
the sidewalk into snow. The fountain in his residential
area had been shut down until spring, so we walked
through a series of gates and enclosures to find another
fountain. There we composed letters to American Bungalow
Magazine. His began, “Bungalow owners will rejoice to find
that memory is not a room, it is a bungalow.” Mine began,
“I am writing in response to your September article
on unconventional salt and pepper shakers, which, in my
estimation, can only be considered ‘unconventional’
if they are filled with something other than salt or pepper.”
All that sand and graphite on the dinner, turning our teeth
into dingy pearls. We praised the fountain because it was full
of feeling but ultimately transparent. We praised the electric
chandelier: shorthand for “flame.” Think of a transistor
as a bucket full of invisible water, he said, and I said
why not invisible wine, or some kind of oil and wine emulsion?
It’s easy once you get the hang of it. It’s only cold because
of all this wind howling from its pulpit on the beach.
If god wanted us to be strangers, why would he place us
next to each other in the movie theater and make us think
our knees are touching when they’re really a few inches
apart? Looking at Anita Ekberg’s breasts, we can see
the future. It is soft, pink, and frolics in a fountain
where the sea gods bathe their weary feet.

Being that the shortcut to the only grocery store in town is smeared with blue bottle flies and small dogs, I am forced to walk on Main Street.

The dressmaker knows my name because I commissioned a gown that I never bought. I wanted bluebottle flies for the bodice and many stitches and it was expensive work.

My ship was coming in, I thought. This was the idea, to watch the ship coming in while wearing the gown, to watch the wrestle of the sea in it.

The ship I saw coming in was not mine. It belonged to my sister—we bear the same coat of arms. The next day she was famous. She came to my hut by limousine. “Let’s buy the dress together,” she said. “We can go Dutch.” I told her I would never go Dutch with her on anything. “I’ll buy it myself,” she said. I could do nothing to stop her as she was already famous at this point.

So my sister bought the gown. She wore it on television the next day. It looked so fabulous, they put her at the end of the parade instead of the mayor’s ironweed float. I watched my sister through dark glasses. I, too, had been practicing for fame.

The next day, my sister took the gown back. It was so fabulous she couldn’t wear it again. I tried to buy it back, but the dressmaker said such a thing was impossible. She put on her earphones and embroidered lambs on a set of linen napkins. No one has spoken to me since.

Nobody won the World Series. We were too busy pollinating our
telephones to watch. The radios grew dense with bee stings, grew

leaves; it was easy to tell who had been kissing too much. Some
girls wore deep bruises and carried paper fans. Myself, I took

to wearing a veil until dusk. Spinsters and virgins, perfect vandas
on their faces, blanched and turned cold in palpable shame. Self-help

books advised to “press the back of your hand against your orchid
to simulate the gentle pressure of a kiss. This will help you appear

less desperate.” So it became impossible to know anything simply
by looking at the orchid on someone’s face, whether it flourished

or hung loose like a tooth. Nobody married that year. On New Year’s
Eve we waited for midnight with secret bottles of champagne, tubes

of lipstick and piles of matches, so ready to have our mouths
again. When the orchids fell off, we ate chocolates and whole

fish, but it was not the end of our problems. Opera singers sung arias
in reverse, and startled children in Detroit knew French. Our voices

fell out of our mouths like anvils and we couldn’t pretend to be anything
but stupid and vague. We whispered. Some of us wanted to change back.

We can listen, but we won’t hear
The midnight ride of Paul Revere,
Yet we still claim to see the lantern.

It stands aglow against the night,
It asks that someone come and fight.
We claim this is familiar pattern.

And then they choose to raise their hand,
This is as right as our own land.
For this, most thank them without malice.

Pursue happiness, liberty,
Or life, maybe combine all three,
Or drift otiosely, unfocused.

A voice calls out and I’m confused:
“Because I called and ye refused;
I stretched my hand and no one noticed.”

The words come down without God’s might;
The words come down, in faded light,
And for the words we need a seer.

From tenderly united states
We praise God, shield freedom, hide hate,
Ignore God, and terribly miss Her.

I do not cry, but clarify,
For God Himself will testify:
These are your volunteers.