Beer with Coca-cola

“It’s all about the pre-knowledge.” I want a
house with an enormous hearth, all white plaster
and warm brick and unpolished copper. I want
a stand above it in which to boil water or
soup in a cauldron or bake flat-bread on an
iron tray. I want it to have a wooden floor
so I won’t have to vacuum. I want my own
bedroom and a bathroom with a huge, separate
tub, like the one in Aviva’s’s apartment, but a shower
also big enough for two. I love taking showers
with Ryan. “Francis called from the emergency
room, but it’s not her, it’s her daughter.”
Zits pop up on my chin and forehead, stretching
the skin above them painfully. “The man never
says anything, but you know a lot about him.”
The nail-polish is crumbling from my hands. I
remember being stung by jelly-fish on a spring-break
beach in Virginia, years ago. I try to think
of good dream stories to tell my boyfriend before
we fall asleep. “I don’t know who the poem
was written for.” Last weekend I asked him
what his father did. “I’d like her to be
even more ruthless.” “600 years in middle
management.”