We almost didn't get in at first (she said I sounded
like a delivery driver; I was going to yell up but
used the buzzer instead) then to her apartment where
she smokes and works and drinks coffee. Hasn't bonded
with her baby yet. Eggbeaters and happy crabs. His
big, long toes. And watches a kayak from far away.
Still owed a date by a cute boy at Hollywood Video
from a month ago that she's stalking who gave her
a hot chocolate to get her to go away she says.
Then she called herself a milk machine: the nurses
grabbed her breast and stuck it in the baby's face,
she said. Like they were trying to kill him with it.
She was on a crucifix, by god, raised up five feet
off the ground inside a harness, numb from the legs
down like they were getting sawed off, from the neck
down and throwing up down her face, screaming Oh God
Oh God for drugs, and with the other girl in the next bed.
After she related the birthing trauma and showed all
her tiny pictures we walked down, found a taco stand
on 7th -- you, her, The Third, myself; They were still
washing the cutlery -- then took the bag of books to
Russell's, looked for a coffee, ended up in Chinatown
and drank it by the dock watching a kayak row away.
2011
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