A lesson in lung capacity, in tears streaked
like a windshield. How hungry winter was.
Broke into apartments,
slept in kitchen sinks, in mouse holes.
Kept snow in our back pockets, eyes burnt
out like city lights. I took the scenic route
each night, broke Corona bottles outside bars
with no names, smeared faces. Fingers sticky
with lime juice. It was easier, then.
Hands coated in flour, honey tongues
bit by wasps, hornets with yellowing bodies
crawling from the bathtub, from the back
of my throat. Dry mouth for months.
Found gifts in medicine cabinets, in forgotten mothers.
The spine of a woman
who can’t remember her first name.
A mattress, gutted and gagged,
pulled down stairs like a body.
— Yasmin Belkhyr, Coney Island, a Widow (via wildflowerveins)
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