It used to be that you could reach your arms down into the earth, even further than any child could dig on his way to China. Oil auctioneers were homiletic, casting hexagrams and selling terms like, “I know what you mean” and “This will cure your everything.”

In a dream, mothers—not your own—tucked bread into your pockets and threaded whispers into your hair. Everything you touched made you greasy. You left your fingerprints on handrails and windowpanes around the world.

Nowadays, they sell soap that will remove the shine from your skin. They still can’t do anything about what’s stuck under your fingernails.