The Sad Tale of Penny Farthing: Part the Sixth (and strangest)

sweet

(grim)

repose

From Eli’s voice a staccato mantra merged with my clacking heels: lighter and the pack.

              the distant thunder, the thick choking trashnight humidity of a Brooklyn August, the miasma, the mist, I stumble down through the broken pavement rambled paths of the

. . . a pot of lip gloss (all the stereotypes in place) . . . a compact park, hot steam sweating up from the grates beyond the tree line, nostrils, turning down a street with one flickering light.

              there damn you eyes, damn your eyes, damn your eyes. fumbling through my wiry arms envelope me, the knife so sharp I don’t notice my throat are footfalls behind me (a light step, a ringing shoe sound, a a flood, a rush, a flow, a spray, and finally jerky spasms . . . I go down gurgling.

down on me, collecting in the backs of my knees, under my arms, fingertips, flip, click, flame, ember, smoke. I breach the park, modest two-inch heel), quickening footfalls, a sudden leap, and city simmering, trains boiling beneath the surface. that sour bitch anticipatory rumbling. finally, the cool metal grazing my puddling beneath my breasts. exhale now, pluming smoke from my mirror . . . (detritus of femaleness) . . . everything but the is cut until the hot protoplasm pulses down the front of my dress, inhale, and cross past the pool. I can feel the muggy night settle purse with soft, runny hands, finding everything . . . a tampon . . .

sweet

(grim)

repose

              I stumble down through the broken pavement rambled paths of the park, hot steam sweating up from the grates beyond the tree line, city simmering, trains boiling beneath the surface. That sour bitch from Eli’s voice a staccato mantra merged with my clacking heels: damn you eyes, damn your eyes, damn your eyes. Fumbling through my purse with soft, runny hands, finding everything . . . a tampon . . . a pot of lip gloss (all the stereotypes in place) . . . a compact mirror . . . (detritus of femaleness) . . . everything but the lighter and the pack.

              The distant thunder, the thick choking trashnight humidity of a Brooklyn August, the miasma, the mist, anticipatory rumbling. Finally, the cool metal grazing my fingertips, flip, click, flame, ember, smoke. I breach the park, inhale, and cross past the pool. I can feel the muggy night settle down on me, collecting in the backs of my knees, under my arms, puddling beneath my breasts. Exhale now, pluming smoke from my nostrils, turning down a street with one flickering light.

              There are footfalls behind me (a light step, a ringing shoe sound, a modest two-inch heel), quickening footfalls, a sudden leap, and wiry arms envelope me, the knife so sharp I don’t notice my throat is cut until the hot protoplasm pulses down the front of my dress, a flood, a rush, a flow, a spray, and finally jerky spasms . . . I go down gurgling.