[he was a marching band…]

he was a marching band cymbal crasher
and the sound carried through the rain like
an echo reverberating off the small of a back,
her back, as she turned in the sluice to look
at him and then ran, squeezing through
the gap in the fence to reach the street,
up piermont ave across kinderkamack and down
again to the gazebo scrawled with penises and
hearts and dates and SD + [someone’s
name crossed out] 4EVA and she climbed
up into the top, knees locked around a beam
of wood and she could still hear him laughing
like a trumpet brilling and she prayed
that the gods of sound would make her
deaf forever in that drenching torrent
of textbook molecules that now soaked her
skin and she shivered to remember something
warm and wet where there was now only cold.
she was an agoraphobic within her own heart,
listening to the beat of percussive want from
the inside, putting her hands against the shadows
on the walls, and he was the blood clot she needed
to stop the bleeding from her ears, he was the
blood clot that would eventually kill her.
in the morning they found an outline of her body
in rust, and they could not distinguish between
the rain and the tears, the blood rimming the edge
of a dissonant cymbal.


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