Highway wildflowers swaying like the ocean. Queen Anne’s lace like doilies for a tea party never attended. This is a conversation between two parts of yourself. The fever will break soon, but until then I’ll be untangling you from the knots in my windblown hair. I smell like a wet forest, like long grass covered in sequins. I called your name but was drowned out by the thunder. I remember you murmuring, “please,” while you took my shirt off. I remember you and the airy “please” when you pulled me toward you by my legs. I remember “please” while I learned how to let go. I remember your divine “please.” chanting it as if it’d draw a demon out of hiding. “Please, please, please.” and I screamed, “yes.

calloused: a field journal