A friend requests an ode to her vulva, less half-serious than the organ itself, insistent in humour insistent distress in a hothouse summer of self-fulfilled prophecy. It is the friend-of-a-friend you discuss and never meet – a troubled loveliness, no doubt – the one you always have to taxi home, the always-attended or the arms-around sulk. I never met, yes, just gossiped guiltlessly around the covered subject – private-platonic. But we vet haircuts first, commiserate on low-set design, and delight in any of its sonar voices. It is the changingest part of you and I have few words, but find myself glad it’s there, insisting something.