In a bathtub in Hiko, West Virginia, my figure inverts in the faucet’s gleam, fabricating the lie that the body is a thing just as likely to show up here as anywhere. Consciousness tempers a bit with water, like my plastic cup of bourbon and ginger translucent now with melted ice. A trance of silence from the hotel hall whirs in the ventilation fan. I’d like to leave this reflection behind in the unmade bed as though this happened a long time ago and I had to look hard to find the person I was then again. Instead, I water myself down with some new trick or other and see the horizon as the brick heel of a house where a lawnmower hums out back. What can any of us know about ourselves except that we’re good for filling out the sleeves of our shirts? Still, today at a pumpkin fair in southern Ohio, I saw a man lift a meanly glowing beauty by his teeth.

JENNIFER KEY teaches at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. Her work has recently appeared in Callaloo, The Southwest Review, and The Carolina Quarterly.