Postapocalyptic Heartbeat

In a city made of rain each door, a silence; each lock, a mouth, I walked daily through the spit-slick streets, harbingers on my hands in henna: there will be no after Saeed Jones, ‘Postapocalyptic Heartbeat’ from ‘Prelude to Bruise’.


His mouth bleeds when he starts to sing, but—bless him—he licks the taste of ruby from his teeth and sings anyway. Thin blade of glass lodges in each note, listen— he’s trying to be better than the rain. Saeed Jones, ‘Dominion’ from ‘Prelude to Bruise’.

Blue Prelude

Last night, the ceiling above me ached with dance. Music dripped down the walls like rain in an old house. My eyes followed the couple’s steps from one corner to the other, pictured the press of two chests against soft breathing, bodies slipping in and out of candlelight. The hurt was exquisite. In my empty…

Boy at Edge of Woods

After his gasp and god damn, after his zipper closesits teeth, his tongue leaves its shadows, leaves me alone to pick pine needles from my hair, to brush brown leaves off my shirt as blades of light hang from the trees, as I relearn my legs, mud-stained knees, and walk back to my burning house.…