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is the one in which she devours an egg sandwich on the overcast train ride to Montauk. Both of us desperate to quit the city, even just for one day, so foolishly we underdressed for the sea. How far a few bucks take us: to the top of a lighthouse, a tote bag full of ceramic souvenirs, a single lobster roll. She poses for photos along the bluffs. I dip my feet into the cold ocean. We talk about our parents, their failures, our own.
I wish I had hiked the frozen hill tonight for reception, called to tell you I had a good time hearing the two Somali cab drivers laughing near an avalanche of on-sale oranges. I played a prince in absolute awe as the orchestra soared. I wish I had braved the snow to say, I ain't want nothing but got the world. How I’ll whisper about the one wasp who lived with me here through all of October, that snowy owl in the nettles so close inland in November, the night, its lick of moon.
I learn the hard way that I don’t fit into a Japanese extra-large. I squint and give the peace sign, both as ridicule. Your grandmother touches my hair, says that it’s dark in translation. She gives us doilies for America. Everyone speaks English in the jazz club. You didn’t prepare me for indoor smoking and perverts. My loneliness would not eat this raw horse, but our suburban friend orders it with beer. Your aunt hang-dries my clean underwear in her living room. I bow in earnest.
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