Vroom Vroom Plays In The Background

Behind the wheel, I press the ball of my bare foot against the worn ridges of the accelerator. The road opens into a series of soft curves without speed signs. Each bend feels as though it was drawn by someone practicing the letter s in cursive.

I grin at paddocks of cows, imagine the taste of grass. Picture cartoon cowboys with frayed yellow wheat held between their teeth. Consider the weight of multiple stomachs and the rooms inside my own torso. Make neighing sounds when I pass horses. Think about giving birth in a paddock, picture pink plastic dishwashing gloves shoved inside of me.

I wonder what the human equivalent of udders is. Remember lactating friends and their rhythmic pumps – sitting beside them in parked cars outside the party. It was my responsibility to find a decent radio station while they untied and retied a series of ribbons: those expensive maternity blouses that promise modesty for someone else.

Some bodies are resources while some bodies are redactions. I imagine teats censored like nipples; pixellated online; itchy beneath strips of electrical tape at the pride parade. Behind the wheel, I imagine a series of small red tassels hanging from the underbelly of a cow.