THREADCOUNT

Moira

And suddenly I was awake again, blinking, sun-shock lavender brightness, sand-scratch morning, the concatenation of hunger and nausea rocking me on my mat, and my behind-the-knees achy with growing pains, and rictal motors overtaking the wind, birdsong, and my dreams so luscious, Dormition was the last holiday I read about in the books I wasn’t supposed to be reading, where the Heavenly Mother ascended, forgoing her earthly vessel and making her seat at a table in the eternal mansion—free-flowing, clean water there, cool, and bountiful the honeycomb bread, chicken, jambouri and sahawik—mother of mothers, and I a child, ribby nothing, heavy heart in my burlap center, I mind not my elders, mishear my mother, she is mixed-up, that lady, for I am tired, not starving, brave yet hopeless because the lone grocer is not so safe for travel and his shelves are stocked solely with Gatorade.

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Atlanta

In the middle of the afternoon, the parking lot packed, what’s the difference, jelly jam peanut butter Hershey’s almonds, Skittles fish for gold? I was not afraid to be seen by your mom. I scrunchied your footlong. The sky was vaporous, our jokes dissipated. We walked through. Paid a pack. Left our cigarettes in the cab. Call me your major cocklancer: thickly acned, blonde like a moose, way hard to see. Other girls were prettier. Think of them.

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At the Dispensary

We were all made uncomfortable—very, very uncomfortable—when Rosario began to tell us stories about her childhood: her pets (spaniels and parakeets), her friends (those of her older brother), her parents (one crazy, one croaked), and what the people and animals did together (beaks and tongues and tickles). It was too much for a Sunday, in a building without windows, when outside the sun hung in the sky like an unfinished dream. It was noon. Everyone would be ditching their church families and coming for bags.