Felicity stands in the threshold. Back and forth between
the couch and the window. She tells me her family are from here
expecting me to be a little more shocked than I am tipping
away when she leans in smiling back and forth to catch her eyes.
All the way from Austria to tell me. Did you know that fennel is
aggressive here because of this terrible warmth it grows where
it pleases and it grows. Did you know I make up small lies
to make you believe me more? A new tradition of embroidered
pastoral scenes, violence in floral wallpaper, a substitute for gilt.
There are children missing everywhere, she says,
and I spelled her husband’s name wrong.
I wish I could lie better and more often. I could enter someone’s
home and wave back and forth and back and say I’m from here,
now tell me what you know.