In Minneapolis, in the rust-bucket Taurus, we scored heroin from the north of the city and chased it down with whiskey, watching Van-Zandt’s movies, we collected cigarettes in our jars of water, and somehow made it to work on time, running that mile down University with a stitch in my side.
And we hung our Christmas lights just so over your Polaroids, making noise in the bedroom with no chance of finishing, and Jameson’s lips curled like the Wicked Witch and the sunset was bigger and the sky hung like heaven – and my father believed in God or the halfway house, and my mother believed in me and my lying mouth.
And my mother believed in me so that I could carry her shoulders through the thick of our sickness with the throats in black water, the asphalt surrounding, we are all safe and sound, all safe and sound.
And my lover moved in with her books and her rings which she took off at night when she lay down with me, but soon she couldn’t breathe and soon she couldn’t sleep, and soon she would not leave the ornamental sheets, and my father believed in God or the halfway house…
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