‘i hear you’re not talking to your mother,’ she says, and her
voice is a slippery crush of green olives, a sweet fig, patient and
centuries old, i never ask about her birthdays anymore, ‘is it
because he’s married?’ she asks, ‘or is this the one who had the
baby? i’ve lost track.’

none of them, but she thinks all my heartbreaks are connected,
‘i’m so tired,’ i tell her, ‘i don’t want to talk to the start of
summer or her loud wonders.’ all the love letters sound the
same, all the men think they’re special, i buy my own selling
spiels, i mean them all, i am so bored

‘i remember when my son was like this,’ she says, ‘have you been
to the desert? little gods like you always have to go.’ i try to guess