In the seaward slums of the
city a small, second story room,
it is one of many identical
rooms, nothing sets is apart.
There is a bare, stained bed and
a sharps jar on a formica table,
the only sounds are the insect
buzz, through the window, of
the broken neon in the rain and
the shallow hiss of her breath.
She squats in the corner,
something implicit yet childlike
in the splay of her legs.
A needle and spoon
lie neatly at her side.
There is a tattoo on her
thigh, perhaps a snake or a
snarl of barbed wire, smeared
by time beyond recognition.
We fall, flightless, into
the pin p**** in her ankle.
Wombed by blood, we are
thrust by the throb of her
heart to the tips of her
fingers and back through
the branches of her veins.
We come to rest, spent,
behind her eyes and see
ourself as she would see us:
A contusion of neon spreads
across our face and turns
our smile into a sneer.
Our outstretched hand is a clawed
parody of its empathetic intent.
Through her ears we hear a distant
tidal roar of freeway traffic.
The keening calls of police sirens.
An endless conversation of rain.
Static.
Pull back.
We crouch at her feet and
the smell flares our nostrils.
Through the lank shroud of her
hair we see the twitch of her lips.
We hold our breath and
put our ear to her mouth.
Only the whistle of breath
through her broken teeth.
Where her voice fails
her eyes deliver:
"It's OK. OK. Leave us alone."
We can only shrug and
walk from the room.
On the stairs we are
momentarily crushed.
By the weight of our pain, personal
and empathetically accrued, yes.
But also by the image of these
countless, identical rooms, all
with their own catatonic residents.
And perhaps others, standing over
them, envious of their escape.
Gathering our coat at our
chest we walk out of the
doorway, into the rain.
city a small, second story room,
it is one of many identical
rooms, nothing sets is apart.
There is a bare, stained bed and
a sharps jar on a formica table,
the only sounds are the insect
buzz, through the window, of
the broken neon in the rain and
the shallow hiss of her breath.
She squats in the corner,
something implicit yet childlike
in the splay of her legs.
A needle and spoon
lie neatly at her side.
There is a tattoo on her
thigh, perhaps a snake or a
snarl of barbed wire, smeared
by time beyond recognition.
We fall, flightless, into
the pin p**** in her ankle.
Wombed by blood, we are
thrust by the throb of her
heart to the tips of her
fingers and back through
the branches of her veins.
We come to rest, spent,
behind her eyes and see
ourself as she would see us:
A contusion of neon spreads
across our face and turns
our smile into a sneer.
Our outstretched hand is a clawed
parody of its empathetic intent.
Through her ears we hear a distant
tidal roar of freeway traffic.
The keening calls of police sirens.
An endless conversation of rain.
Static.
Pull back.
We crouch at her feet and
the smell flares our nostrils.
Through the lank shroud of her
hair we see the twitch of her lips.
We hold our breath and
put our ear to her mouth.
Only the whistle of breath
through her broken teeth.
Where her voice fails
her eyes deliver:
"It's OK. OK. Leave us alone."
We can only shrug and
walk from the room.
On the stairs we are
momentarily crushed.
By the weight of our pain, personal
and empathetically accrued, yes.
But also by the image of these
countless, identical rooms, all
with their own catatonic residents.
And perhaps others, standing over
them, envious of their escape.
Gathering our coat at our
chest we walk out of the
doorway, into the rain.