The first year I lived in Florida, a woman told me, nothing dies here but the people. The first night of the hurricane, my
I. Month five: you carry a peach inside you. The fetus covers itself in sparse fur. You may or may not birth a child
Rita and I are Mystery Sisters, buoyant on the porch, taking turns being Little Elk, make-believing we’re savvy. Our game, equal parts Saturday Westerns