I start writing her name on bathroom stalls in a neutral pen, the wood on recycled plastic. At the tip of urination I get bored and think of her. Others have told her times more often than not “you’re beautiful” or “so beautiful.” The bic stresses her affricate; my bladder falls away.
I ignore her intelligent spots. Wander by the baby how it came out in knots then beat her underwear into the sink, its hysterical troll face.
She wears gold pans, a situation for her earrings how does she keep them, tinned, stacked, hung? Some at odds. The stalls for her, nothing, the dishwasher rings the fridge eggs. At every knee, hip, ear, I draft her name gangly; the materials beg me. Her hand directs light wherever I paw.