REBECCA HAWKES
Fruju Tropical Snow
all summer we dragged those
bodies around that wanted
nothing to do with us. our
bodies told us what they
thought they needed, and we
had no choice but to listen.
the bodies blew eggs and
filled their painted shells with
shots of liquor. the bodies
could have sworn a DJ
stopped the remix to whisper
‘i’m sad’ into the mic before
resuming his sick beats,
dropping some of the hottest
hits of the ‘80s. later, in that
same heaving discotheque,
somebody had to peel the
leftover synonyms for desire
off the bathroom floor. we
have since abandoned those
insatiable bodies – we
managed it either by sheer
force of will or total lack of
attention. it was the freest
season, but also the heaviest.