MIC CHECK
ONE
the weatherman says rain & so I string an umbrella to my wrist. it is morning. outside the sun has outshone the fog for the first time in a week. i look like an idiot, lit up like a spotlight in my heavy jacket & twirling an instrument of rain, but i am happy to play the part.
TWO
wearing a towel across my shoulders instead of a shirt, i sit in a small chair facing the living room windows at dusk. matea is cutting my hair, which collects on a sheet we’ve spread on the floor. there is no music. for once, she wants to hear the scissors (salons are loud). i am watching the clouds change colors. later, in an intersection high above the city, i unfurl the gathered sheet & let the wind carry the long ends of my hair off across the water to the continent.
