the migration of souls

the migration of souls

A man I had just met offered an unsolicited piece of advice: “Go fuck yourself.” I hurried off as if eager to try. It was almost summer. The ground shook at shorter and shorter intervals. In a cluster of trees, I unzipped to take a piss. The police interrupted before I could finish. “Donate today,” one said, “for a better tomorrow,” and handed me a brush and a can of white paint and told me to number the trees. There are rules governing such things, but I hadn’t bothered to learn them. How does a woman do it – smile with her whole body?