The floral pattern in my memory won’t be accurate. The window in the bathroom is barred, and the bigger one overlooks empty dorms in darkness.

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My father had covered my eyes in the theater when Kate Winslet’s breasts appeared on screen, but he’d forgotten this same parental impulse when the bodies crashed onto the smokestacks from the stern before plunging into the Atlantic. It should have instilled in me a message that the female body was more dangerous than hubris itself…

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When I met you, you were in a lunchbox, neatly packed and wrapped around yourself. Missing your head but otherwise intact, as if you were lightly steamed, or maybe raw, but it didn’t occur to Dream Me, on a field trip to the Oakland Zoo, that there was anything amiss. I woke up just before slicing into your thigh. I woke up salivating.

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I would wonder if I were a sociopath, but it was really that I hadn’t found alcohol yet, at least not in earnest. But that’s a less interesting part of the story, especially as it relates to a dead, revered, white male playwright and the words he wrote which freed me.

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