Holy City by Howie Good

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.

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.

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.

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

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