Some rituals I do to imagine what you knew about freedom: move my fingers over glass, swipe like a question; swallow a bullet and stay silent until it passes; touch my lips to silicone, sand, silicone, sand; walk into the ocean and let the waves kick me over, then dry in the sun and lick the salt from my forearms; sit facing a friend and hold our palms together without touching; take turns completing the phrase, It could have been that . . . ; draw my face from memory; ask a friend to bind me with rope until I can’t move, tense up until I cry; then laugh until the ties loosen; until everything
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