Say it again.
"Ploppage."
Say it again. She was rubbing the underside of her arm.
"Ploppage."
She chuckled.
Say it again.
"It's not a word." I pushed her. Her nose hit the wall, and she laughed.
"Ploppage," I said.
She stroked the bridge between her shoulder and back. She smiled to the ceiling.
Now say it in French.
"If it's not a word, I can't say it in French."
Say it in French.
—Tu me fais brûler comme le fleuve Mississippi en Juillet craquelé et sèc, mes cheveux et tes chevilles grandiront épais, mais je ne peux me séparer de ton image et du bruit du ventilateur qui me lance, m'engourdit, de chansons apaisantes que je n'entendrai jamais à la radio.—
Felicia Ferrara is from the Midwest and spent seven of her formative years in boarding school in Southern Africa. She is a writer, filmmaker, and photographer living in Chicago. Her fiction has also been published in apt - a literary magazine.
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