I wake under the sky of afternoon, day waning into quiet. I hear nothing but birds, their song tense, a familiar sadness.
Say that my feet are black with the soot of the bar floor, the town sidewalks. Say that my makeup is smeared across my pillow. Say that I sleep until 4pm. Say that I wake up next to a man whose bony elbows and knees would have kept me up all night if it weren't for the vodka. Say that he pulls my nipples with his teeth. Say that I like it.
I try to make music out of this day, but I cannot listen to the jazz of sirens without feeling like the end is near. In this town, sound is an omen. Every muffler backfiring, every nail gun in a construction site, automatic weapons. There is a history here. Anger grows like flowers, its unconditional blossoms, branches flawed.