Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing to you from a land of poems, a land of brownies and salty snacks and easy fucking. A land without cops and Bibles and flags. No one here stands in a school board meeting, for example, in a belt buckle that could, if flung, kill a guinea pig, and yells "My body, my choice" while lassoing air with a cloth mask that has for a long time needed washing.

Here, we drink tequila. We take baths. We walk without purpose. The rage we've been breath-holding has turned into candy, so the whole place is like that board game, all edible and for the taking. In other words: nobody is wanting. On none of the street corners and back yards and office buildings, nowhere, is there anyone to berate anyone for their satiety.

Here, uteruses glow. They can snap handless anyone who, with regulatory intentions, nears them, so watch it. But you know that already. You probably know that. Laws of the land, etc.

From the sugar candy mountain, from the place where a special machine deletes Josh Hawley's voice and face from your memory, from the fucking matriarchy,

Amy