Too tall for the lipstick. A kiss through an IV. And when you come back, you work minimum wage and have water cooler sex and your face is no more than archives. Swallowing her and hiccups and starvation.
There are a lot of lights in a city. Her feet are sticking out of a snow bank and bent back and illuminated by the hospital ambulance bay. A smoke stack has its own ideas about what looks best in what shade of black. I push back the flaps on her coat and cup her ears with my hands. I make out the shadow of her scavenger teeth and the lakes of memories and the explosion of passengers.
WE HAPPEN HERE
In the bathroom at the lodge. A smile wrapped around my ankles. I’ve got a new name for everything. You were never the someone I recognized. You were never the harvest I thought you were.
Amanda Deo is the fiddler on your roof. She hunts for broken hearts. The last thing you read is the best thing she’s ever written. Her work has previously been included in Ditch, Black Words on White Paper, The Toucan, Sparkbright Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, Fosebook, Soundless, and Negative Suck. Additional work will be shown in Short, Fast and Deadly and em:me in 2013. She has previously published a chapbook entitled North of the Mason-Dixon Line (In/Words Press, 2005).