Image courtesy of Lakshmi Mulgund
When the train attempts a tight corner and
my head meets the wall,
I see the night in pieces.
Her body, vulnerable and broken open, laid in a booth with her head in her hands: I need to get this off my chest, I need to go home, I needed to tell you. After I split her skull over my knee, a dried walnut in the middle rattled music to move my hips to. Her headache my music, her hurt my rhythm—and my body dancing, eating the space between mine and the next, just like
now, slipping in my seat as the train rumbles me towards her,
stiff and solid. Heave a breath against the sticky, humid morning; the underground heat leaning against my face like a hand. I sway with it. Her too, beside me and silent, yawns carving air out of space.
When I took a silent exit, scabbed up on the sidewalk after my heel caught a crack. My flesh ran like tights when it met the pavement, maroon shining down my shins, smooth and beautiful.
Spent ten minutes digging my fingers in to
feel what I’m like inside, all that pumping
within me, against me, humming at my fingertips
until I forget
what happens. I think she hooked me under
the arms
and I think my palms were bloody.
Train slams into the station and my hips meet hers, meat against meat. Her red eyes look cold into mine, get yourself together, and her fingers come away from my cheeks stained with mascara. Doors open, we startle apart, and the smell of coffee eats my face from the man with a big brown jacket on his way to work.
Breathe over my knees until the smell makes a home in me,
I can’t keep doing this with you, while I stare into
a water spill dancing the linoleum, feel her
energy slip a few inches away. feel the
electric rail rattle and hum, feel the
train shaking, my body shaking, and we’re
only halfway down the line and I can’t make it stop.
Strike out,
Strike St. Louis
Written by: Cordelia Ramsey
Edited by: Ellie Fischman