The sun was a yolk in the sky until it pooled into a vat of soup, until it resolved as the bent halo of a saint from a forgotten country. Meanwhile, two hurricanes boiled the waters of the gulf as a doctor poised a needle above my sternum. He asked, Do you smell burning? I didn't tell him it was only the small, hot tracks tears made in the folds of my pluck— I've always wondered a little about what used to live between the first letter of that word, and the house of good fortune it wants to be annexed to. Sun, moon, you old heartbreakers: everything withers from the stalk or swells, buckling islands of cardboard houses. I am no pioneer, no trailblazer. I only wanted our hearts to copper and grow wide-hipped as squash emerging from unlikely tents of fragile green.