She Was.

Jane’s body, a continent not her own.

The long straight highways of her torso. The scorched heat earth, the film of sand and sweat. The ochre-coloured dust, fine streaks on the windscreen when you’re driving from here to the centre. Dust that settles and stays and can never be quite wiped clean. And then, the wet of lakes with no bottom, or, a bottom she dies to reach. Her spine the raze of fires, the burning pulse. All in a row, cotton flying in the wind, her hair soft and singed.

Jane’s eyes, half closed, between sleep and awake, the not dream-state, and she holds her knuckle to her mouth – a lullaby – and her body – a continent no longer her own.