Francine does not become the body of plants. She escapes in a phone call. When my arms become heavy. When even the garden grows angry. I call someone in Georgia. A cat, maybe. Francine does not become what saddens her. She talks to anger. I tell it to count leaves with me, she writes, to eat salt water taffy. Francine imagines what saddens her grows into the body of plants. I want anger to sleep with me in a garden. To wake pretend we’re in Georgia. Francine once read St. Gabriel stands there, arms wide, in a delta. Escape, she writes, becomes the body, love. My arms, often heavy, still need to call to someone.
Francine wants to understand the body of plants. She holds his arms the same way. Bodies travel, but come back, she writes, when in need of water. Francine dreams when he’s beside her. How not to feel sadness. How not to become herself in need of water. Francine steals maps from a gas stations out of desperation. The body knows how to hold what comes back, but not how to feel sadness. Francine wants to understand, so she buys plants, interprets what they’re saying. If in need of water, the map’s beside her. He sleeps, she writes, as though the dead before a blessing.