How nearly can I inhabit someone else’s body? I don’t have any money. Prostrate, scrolling through other people’s clothes, I’m wearing the tearable pink dress I met you in. It came taped up in a box that smelled like house and once held water filters. These truncated mannequins I imagine angels appear as— headless torsos, voices emanating from necks— scare me like you did. Still I let divine will fill me like a windsock, commencing a delirious motion. Now my love is a line pulled by no current. Thanks for your purchase! wrote the woman in Queens on scalloped cardstock. Pulling her dress over
