by Holly Iglesias
She ate the cake whole, making of her mouth the hold of a cargo ship a few days out of Havana. Though she sailed the warm blues of the Caribbean, she dreamt of the Bosporus—cinnamon, salt, sweat, ash, sigh. Tattered, her blue gingham skirt wept, washing the bottom half of her body clean of regret. She went by Nance, a name easy to rhyme and easier to forget as it echoed out from deck to mast then wafted away on the westerlies. Cuba was a constant point of departure, the counterpoise of destination, an airy confection of conjecture. But oh how her dreams wandered, betraying themselves, countering destiny with a will of their own, like the Furies biding time underground, alchemizing rage into a mirthquake of madness.