Holy City by Howie Good

1
We lived in a city famous for its ruins. The sky was the same color as
the glass heart of a bride. I asked what the color was called. Gazelle’s
blood, someone said.

2
The ancients wrote poetry about blood and pus, rules for living, such as
when and who you could fuck. Newborns twitched all around their feet
like poisoned mice.

3
She talked about the incident with the jellyfish. I put a finger to my lips.
The taxi continued climbing the sharp hill that led to all the years ahead.

5
Some prefer the sea. She turned to look behind her. A pink rose was
machine-embroidered on the back of her backpack. All the seabirds
mourned.

6
Out here the light is different – a sprinkle of holy water under a sky
made of ice.