After Hostile Architecture, Rebecca Morgan Frank
There is a body, a bird, and a ghost. Soft teeth made of sugar. There is a city inside the body and in the city a little church to which the pigeon and the girl and the dead man return. And return. It is the body that allows the city that allows the church that allows the three to lay down to rest. Do you know what I mean?
Listen: it’s snowing in here.
I will stop losing pairs of pants. I will stop bleeding through my sheets. I will lift cars off of children. I will have lots of sex and many-legged children. I will carry jacks instead of breadcrumbs. I will look sexy smoking my cigarettes. I will snow. Ice will melt. Rain will less so. I will tell children that if you can see them, they can see you, and they will cover their eyes with two small hands and say Can you see me? Can you see me? And I will say Yes, yes, I can see you β I didn’t mean it like that.
Ruby Rorty is a writer and researcher in Chicago, Illinois, where she works at an analyst at the Center for RISC at the University of Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in hex literary, Gone Lawn, Variant Lit, among others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net and Best Microfiction anthologies.