The resort is billed as a writers’
retreat; a three-week introduction
to the finer points of cosmetology
and a reluctant dancer’s paradise.
It has one postbox and seven hair salons.

On Saturdays, the women with the sleekest
fingers meet to weave the frilly thongweed
into wigs; the rising acidity of our under-
water plants leaves an irritant skim around
the crown of delighted little girls’ heads.

I long for a postcard from the plasticine
man but I have not seen him since that first
evening; I write and write with my palms all
bubbles, I cry in bed, resting pen in my belly
button. Welts, I weep. Save me from my need.