Pink light sears the marbled bar & the straw in my drink is pastel. On wood-paneled walls, American Traditional paintings of my goddesses. Kati texts me : all this gaslighting today. I’m taking extra space, my bags all over the butterscotch seats, & the only men around are behind the bar, burning sage & lemon rinds for garnish, talking about mangoes—their remedial qualities, the cost & palette & current trend toward. I’m turning fuchsia, bottled up. Appropriate me sideways, my bags are full & I’m nothing if not a product, lush. Kati writes : like how I’m feeling isn’t legitimate enough. On the counter, two artificial flames are a native woman’s breasts. Durga save me, I’m liable to paint the borough white—that is, in reminder—my wrists already smelling of tamarind &; jasmine & not because it comes natural, but if I’m to invest in anything, shouldn’t it be our first fruit, that ancient juice, & shouldn’t it be to remedy—. I have to cherry-pick my battles here, can’t argue against exotic existence, so I don’t write : my mother holding a mango is more brown joy than this place will ever see. Filaments fitted with paisleys glow & the tequila’s got this sweet bite & I’m pissed at the walls, they just shutter out light. Joy is fine, joy is pretty pink, but Kati would like to yell, after all, isn’t dissent patriotic & anger a form of grief & I inhale the incense the white bartender burns as if from a censer. My holy hour has only just begun, yes, mangoes are astonishing, & women are worth our own saving. I go about separating pulp from rind.