by Jason D. Ramsey Heather Gill we drink in a bar, where smoke sticks to walls like honey & throats burn from rye. your words are rain drums on bedsheets, hammerfists, bough-breaks for cradles, tethers for ties. kitchen doors creak like crib rails that wake babies from sleep. your lashes flit, plumes rise above grease. it’s okay, i’m not pregnant. it takes years — I’ve tried everything. four men, three scares, two blades. one shoebox full of film strips & ink stamped feet. yo