Aside from the fact that her feet are a blundering ballet of bricks, she can tell she is drunk by the way every limb goes lax, loose. How her knees and elbows feel ungimbaled. She grows obsessed with the rise and fall of her diaphragm, the pulse of her heart beating a drama rabbit rumba in her lower lip. Away fall the aches and pains of 45 years, joints and tendons drift away, drop away. And she rotates her ankles and wrists, while the neck and spine of her life crack and pop, leaving only release. Liminal, she hangs between reality and all the dreams she left behind. Wonders if the smoke she smells is from the riots, the wildfires, or the heat of her own clutch-handed fear.
