The way that the sea failsto drown itself every day. And entendre alludes all those not listening.The way unfertilized chicken eggs fail to have imagination,                    dozened out in their cardboard trays,by which I mean they will never break                    openfrom the inside. The way my imagination (née anxiety) has                    bad brakes and a needto stop sometimes. The way I didn’t believeit when he told me we were going to crash into the car idling                    at a red lightahead of us. To know our future like that seemed unlikely.                    But to have time to tell me?—Nearly impossible. I may have broken                    several ribs that daybut I will never know for sure. I’m okay,I guessed aloud to the paramedic. It doesn’t matter                    if you’re broken if you’re broke,I moaned in bed that night, after several glasses                    of cheap red. I thought it would make a good bluesrefrain. I made myselflaugh and so I made myself hurt—Memoirs by Emilia Phillips, goes the joke.A friend of mine competes in beard and mustache tournaments,even though she can’t grow one herself—Once, she donned a Santa Claus made entirely out of hot-glued tampons.It was as white as the spots in memories I doubt.The first womanI kissed who had never kissed a woman beforecouldn’t get over how soft my face is,even the scar. Once,a famous poet said what’s this and touched my facewithout asking—his thumb like a cat’s tongue on the old wound.He must have thought he was givingme a blessing.