I stopped making sense a long time ago.
They will say I smoked ciggarettes and marijuana, cursed hoarse as a crow in all my languages and loved morphine and Demerol, tequila and pulque, women and men.
I will shrug my illusion of shoulders and answer that I am a water woman, not a vessel, not something you can sail or charter.
I am instead the tributary, the river, the fluid source, and the sea itself. I am all her rainy implications.
And what do you, with your rusted compass, know of love?