Fox

There are a lot of people I would like to give a sentence to. Most of them don’t have faces, they’re colored blurs on top of bodies that wear clothes I’m sure they never owned. Like the Indian girl from kindergarten: She wears a purple sari with gold trimmings with a bindi - and that memory is completely inaccurate because I went to a private school and we wore plaid skirts with blue button ups. I remember this because I have a photograph of me smiling forcibly next to a pretty blonde girl, my fifth grade reading buddy. And then I wonder if she’s as wholesome as she was then, and if she’s pregnant by now - like the way I wonder if the school bus boy I had a crush on, who I heard was wicked at tennis but got a broken wrist, is actually handsome or if it was because he was the only white boy I knew. Is his name was really Brian and is his sister’s name really Abigail - and is she pregnant without a husband as well?

I can’t remember your face, what you wore and the color of your skin - only your arms with cat scratches, and now that I’m older, I wonder if they were really cat scratches at all - and the sand color wisps of your hair. I envision you with a white t-shirt and denim shorts with frayed edges - an Abercrombie model is probably what your face looks like and only your body would be the starving edition. Still, all of this doesn’t explain why I think of a rusted pink pick-up truck in the driveway, yellow flowers in a coke can and Fox. These pieces stay frozen - they don’t grow or adapt to stories other than the fact that you’ve moved - as if they belonged to you.