Summation Elaine Lee & so it was just an hour ago when she had a cocktail: blue like the soap they use in a car wash. An erect slice of lemon shoved into the rim. The surface sudsy, jubilant, & she was with someone she only kind of enjoyed spending time with, & when she stepped into the bathroom, the tile clung to her soles, & there was the smell of bleach, the oppressive low ceiling, the cavernous headache rolling like a tractor along the shores of her skull. Her mother once told her a story: in a straw hut an infant died when her village went up in flames. Her mother did not elaborate; it was a short story, as they say. She thinks of this now, with her thighs so splayed and dull against cold porcelain, & sees the brilliant orange blossoming around her, & her, so spurred on like a racehorse, trained to perform, a gambler’s downfall, desperately thrashing against her reins.
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