If One of Us Should Fall

Fledgling

62 fledGlInG 1. A season of blood poison and rain. Outside, pregnancy. I should be sleeping. Eating flax seeds and broccoli, gathering music within my husks and binds, something that will wrench itself from the body in its own time. Something that needs to split you in two in order to taste the air for itself. 2. Word on the street slings its overbright colors. I saw your bike hurtling toward dim lace, a pair of eyes inching up the spine of another mistake, hips thick as chilled vodka, eyes rimmed. She is not home. Packed and gone. I came across her silk scarves in the resell. Our rainsoaked, crowding three asking the consignment girl to sell it for us, her narrow empire of secondhand nil. 3. Your thoughtful questions: Don’t you know that Providence is locked after eleven o’clock and no sushi anywhere? I know many ways to starve. Make it out alive? I danced the whole way. ...