The darkening sky skids past at sixty miles an hour. My eyes are keeping a vigil over the dead fringes of tarmac either side of the road as I drive . . .

Hello Tamara, it’s lovely to hear your voice stretching out across the Atlantic, from your eco pod of wellness into my quiet space, where things are not so well today. But it is today. New and fresh.

And when the snake finished, the cow turned and licked the snake’s head, tender, like a mother to
her newborn. The snake slipped away, disappeared into the undergrowth.

If J.M. Spugg inspired anything like admiration or fellow-feeling, it was among people who had never actually interacted with J.M. Spugg.

On my fourth birthday, my grandfather and I lowered a mango sapling into the ground together, his large loamy palms covering mine. This summer, when we sliced them open—mangoes the color of marigolds—I couldn’t get over the fact that this moment wouldn’t exist if I didn’t. That without really knowing, my grandfather had written me into the red-brick house’s legacy.

end-of-day catch
our wicker basket full
of salmon sunset

With every book I sell, with every piece of clothing I give away . . .

how do I begin?

The Universe dreamed I’d come to its restaurant. I needed to pass the time before my train home.

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting.