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 achedwith dance. Music dripped down the walls like rain in an old house. My eyes followedthe couple’s steps from one corner to the other, pictured the press of two chestsagainst soft breathing, bodies slipping in and out of candlelight. The hurtwas exquisite. In my empty bed, I dreamed the…