Pittsburgh
Violins
spontaneously combust in my dreams, blowing up storefronts and hillsides. I’m
on my third violin now. Awake, I listen to music until I am saturated, lacquer
on thick blue nail polish. I gleam. Meanwhile, the horizon beckons. I know there
is magic beyond the scrawny skyscrapers and ribbons of highway. But for now I
am here, giving myself whiplash from staring at dogs and Polish grandmas and
men. My shadow darkening on city sidewalks. I stay hungry, forget how to cook,
how to knit delicate shawls shoved into drawers. Words pour out of me like
jewels, sometimes like the plague. Basslines keep me company while I sleep. I
am exhausted but alive. Across the bridge, I see a darkening fog of reality TV
and domesticity so thick I will fall out of my body, no longer remember how to
ache and want and feel. Most of America
is ghosting as we speak. I want to keep what I’ve found. My body a map to the
treasure, my mind a flashlight illuminating the way.
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