All you’ve got to show are those ranch kisses vacuumed on white bleached paper plates.
The pearish heads roll through the park on a saliva slip and slide. Chased morosely by red wine, she turns to you and frowns, speaking in Hausa about being tired.
Ina gajiya? she asks. Ba gajiya, you reply.
Bottles of medical hair restoration gel fall from the skies, pegging crouching women and hysterical children. You think: doing drugs in my dreams is almost better than in waking life. There’s no associated dread, no second-guessing while draped in illusion.
You decide to fly
through the jagged hole in the mountain.
*Ina Gajiya appears at Madswirl