My girl sniffs gunmetal

while she listens to heavy metal

on top of

rooftops and junk shops.

She smokes when she bathes,

believes her version of aromatherapy

is better.

Her legs in the water are pale and

flourescent, like lined lights sheltered by

snow frozen into hail,

but she likes it golden-brown and


“like a 7-and-7,” maybe a whiskey

sour cocktail.

She pops one for her baby,

says, “we need to get high, boy

because someone like me,

I am to die for.”

We were rolling around when

she found ash in the drink and she drank it

when their voices were too loud

she shut them,

said, “this is not a church,

not a coterie,

it’s a stab.”

She screams because

it seems it is all she can

and will do,

so she doesn’t fight back.

Instead, she holds herself up above the concrete and

she straightens her back.

To her surprise, she found that she was



my lungs fill rather quickly with

vengeance and

I am weak, even after a week.