as you speak of devastation
- May 18, 2022
- 1 min read
by Jason D. Ramsey
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. your sleeves safeguard white scars — the space
between stars & envy. i take your
hand, tap dance around truths—
the juke spins & splits us in two—
a fawn underwater, a feral muse.
Jason D. Ramsey is a Michigan lifer who serves as the publisher & editor-in-chief of Barren Magazine. His writing can be found in Parentheses Journal, After the Pause, Isacoustic, Tilde, and more. He welcomes you to connect with him on social media @JasonDRamsey.
