Cain’s contained in Calvino’s desert diary. Klane’s resting under a blanket screen-staring at his blank Etch-A-Sketch. Amina and I, et al., among the coyotes, setting our intention to sit-with-it, that is, the vast question, what is the self unburdened from personality? An only child poly-locating further and further into the word “pasture.” A slimmer and slimmer hologram swimming in a vat of nature’s miso soup. The lingering, tingling, residue when you’ve been utterly immersed, but then ease out of the greatest grassiest bath. A roll call of solitary women, always en medias res, in various states of couch-lolling, their various pets napping on their various laps, while they look through each other’s books and catfish each other’s characters. Not a plot. Not a pure presence. Not a mother nor daughter. Not the sentence’s author. We read her beach-reading Borges and then see ourselves beach-reading “a sense of something else” entirely. A Horse at Night by Amina Cain (Dorothy, 2022).
