All the windows are open and the rain is crouching in the air. I can feel the mist swelling and pressing against my skin. I am rinsing the chicken. The water flows freely over my hands in cool ribbons. I move my hands through it. The chicken is the size and heft of a newborn baby. I turn it gently under the water. This morning I went to the outdoor market. I lightly touched the fruit, then put my fingers on my lips. This is the proper way of determining the ripened fruit. I took one pear and the blackest grapes. I stood in front of the flower cart and watched the flower man look at me. This dress I sewed myself and wash by hand; it has the softness of an apricot skin. The lilies, I said. He nodded. He chose them carefully. One yellow lily he leaned toward my face. The anthers were thick with pollen; the petals splayed open behind. The scent was full and heavy. I closed my eyes. Thank you, I said. At the sink, I run my fingers over the chicken; its skin is so loose it feels like a shirt. I know I cannot cook it. I wash my hands with stinging lye. The lilies are on our small table; the pear is in a basket; the chilled grapes look as though I breathed a silvery frost over them. I beg Sasha again tonight for a baby, but he refuses. I yell this at him, When will you give me a baby, you promised me a baby. That is before I knew you were crazy, all of your family is crazy. He does not look at me when he says such things; he thinks I can cast a spell on him with my eyes. Sasha, look at me. He is barely a man, his chest is smooth, his manner is poor. Sasha, look at me, I say again. Stop it, Witch, he cries. He rushes toward me with his arms outstretched; I tuck my head in my arms. No, I will not give you a baby. He strikes at my ears and shoulders. He weeps with shame. It is time for me to have a baby, I tell him. This is only a chicken and it should be my baby. I tell him that my body is ready for a baby, that I feel my breasts against the fabric of my brassiere; between my legs is a throbbing that almost causes me pain, that my body is turning itself out, towards him. I tell him that I am ready to wear the foolish clothes of a pregnant woman; clothes that pretend the pregnant woman is a girl, as if she has not begged her young husband to take her from behind. He watches me undo the last button on my dress. The air is still. Sasha swallows. You're crazy, he says.

Image: Limoneto Lilies #1, color polaroid transfer on linen paper, by Gina Biancarosa, Copyright © 2000 Gina Biancarosa, Cambridge, MA.