They buy you drinks because your name is in the magazines they read. "I feel like getting in a car and driving away," she says.ĭon't leave me, don't leave me, you don't leave me, don't you leave me, don't leave.Īt night, at clubs and bars, you drink with friends. "What do you need me for anymore?" she says. "I feel like I've got a demon in my head," you say. "We need to get out of this city," she says. "You need to go to the doctor," she says. "Nothing I once loved makes me happy anymore," you say. "I feel like a bird in a cage," she says. "I don't know what's wrong with me," you say. "You haven't been happy in months," she says. Shadowed reapers crouch on wheelbarrowed mine tracks or lie lurking in mine cars, phantom great-grandfathers, black-eyed, Slavic, square-faced, gray-haired, beckoning with crook of finger saying, "Have a drink with me, kid. With late winter comes spiders in your synapses skittering down brain tubes to eat at happiness, ideas, sex drive, energy, ambition, passion-youth gone shriveled and frozen like rock gravel crunching beneath your sneakers and you're walking to that mine that killed your great-grandfather, black-lunged Pennsylvania coal mine, its mouth empty and fanged, and its throat runs straight down. The wine bottle is rising from between your legs like a dark-glassed lighthouse and you laugh, your teeth slop red-black of wine and crooked smile.
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