Les Sables d’Olonne, France. Bordeaux, France.
I murmur the word to myself, France.
Hills like teeth. People in their midst.
I remove my goggles, pale circles where the grey and sun hasn’t got to my eyes. At night we lie in salted baths. Some pour vinegar into the water and claim it soothes their muscles. Dirt and dung gets everywhere. Infection finds places to hide and bloom. At night Harry shows me his back. Boils have taken hold.