Or it is winter & she & I sit in the carport & icicles fall on the hood &
she sings to me in French on the phone though she is right there
she is still right there or she & I sit in the jungle
in the car & papayas fall on the hood & she sings to me in French
on the phone though she is still right there & her voice caramel her voice benzoin
when there is no more singing she asks me tell me a story
& she means tell me we are (not have) bodies I know it I tell her how I went to him
it was dark & humid & the lampposts heavy & he lifted me over his head
held me there yes & I ran the sheerest flags up the first flagpole
I could find & she & I got out of the car & sat on the hood & ice
fell on our heads & papayas on our heads & she had the flu & was ill
& when she had finished she listened to her phone & said
Laurel, how big is a lemon? & I said we are bodies only bodies we are just bodies, mostly
& she said how big is a lemon? & I said & she still right there
& I & smaller than an orange I guess, but bigger than a lime
smaller than a breadbox smaller than a fist smaller than a heart
your heart though bigger than the hearts of certain other animals—
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