the radio plays.
Books pages words press hard.
Life is sucking the marrow out of me,
she says and struggles to find
the smile that usually accompanies irony.
the saxophone sings.
She can no longer connect
the photograph with the image in the mirror on the wall.
She stands and stares for hours at deconstructed femininity.
She paints sussicraN and dead flowers on the glass.
the trumpet is trilling,
it bleeds memories of a violin chin.
She resides in the suburbs of her dreams.
She sits in her room, painting the city on the wall,
and all the time she stares – her anesthetist clutched tightly in hand.
as the radio plays,
she paints herself in skyscraper skies,
and she has skyscraping dreams and a fear of heights.
The brush catches tears before they reach her eyes as she hides
inside the city on the wall.
the saxophone stings
the trumpet is killing her
and the radio plays on.
