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Coming down the stairs of my apartment building Toya sniffs and says someone has been making a particular kind of soup, the kind made with the meat between the ribs of a sheep. Michigmaa is upset that the ecologists put a snake in a jar. I told her the snake died on the ground. And they keep it in the jar for searching. Toya’s old mother received a text message that said I love you so much I miss you so much I am waiting for you outside the discotheque.

We lie around in the landscape, rocks frozen mid-tumble. The babies have balloons and run around play shooting each other. The sky is such a monotone blue it could be said to be colorless.

We call this golden metal soup. We feed it to our children. It’s also good for the day after drinking vodka.

The intestines were black, and the packed pate like inside of them. It was my birthday. Mongolian writer men were pouring my vodka full. The oldest among them, some famous poet, says to me, You’re naughty, aren’t you.
Naughty?
Yes it means cheerful, he says.
No, it means I'm kind of bad.
That’s a good thing.