from Heart of Palm


My singing voice is gone. One person tells another person what is transcribed on the page. The first person wears sunglasses and leans against the window, smoking. In my fingers, the marks of this pen frantically scratch out the last rays of the sun.

Somebody, it can’t be me, has just written the words, dappled light falls on royal gala.

I just remembered what you said. The skin on the back of my neck. Static? Yes. Shoulders? Of course. Tingling? Only when I move.


I’ll report back as soon as I know something more concrete. There’s that word again. You know what? Here comes the other one as well. The person with the sunglasses makes a brief appearance at the window, pushes their hand against the glass and then disappears. Your husband? Could be. The veins on his hand were visible in the refracted light. Heart of palm tattoo tugging at the wrist.

The lunatics have descended on the streets now. Some of them have removed their clothing. Others, the ones on medication, fill out crossword puzzles.