she rarely took it out of her closet. she dabbled with the idea of wearing it because there was something about long, messy hair paired with a long, messy robe that appealed to her. in her mind’s eye she saw arms as pendulums swaying by salient hip bones and clavicles. if she could stand or lay under low clouds with its fabric draped over her, then all the better—anything to no longer see the sky. sadly she could only recreate part of her vision, for there was nothing straight about the sharp turn of her waist. there she stood, in her heartland. (my heartland, heartland, heartland.) shifting the body, lifting the leg, she made the nicest v’s, a feast for golden eyes, a feast of golden ratios, her bones carefully wrapped in this skin, never jutting. she heard it took time—this shape of dripping sand, endless drive, orientation divided, möbius strip—and indeed she cherished it, but she felt better in a man’s shirt. she kept the piece as both a memory and a reminder; a memory of a church basement, and a reminder of deception.