Orthodox Wednesday

This is not a story, there is no conclusion, it is more like an orange with a bite 

carved into its peel. A reckoning

of sorts. Teeth stained black, how our kneecaps clicked when we walked, 

the day that fish started tasting like fish. 

There is no used to be. There only is. 

A bad haircut, asbestos, deep fried cheese. Left shoe on the right foot. Swollen thumbs. 

The exhaust pipe crackling warmth in cold air. 

Who are you, really, but a souvenir? A tchotchke? 

Skin overripe with bruises you cannot explain, the thick stench of fire, 

our God being the conductor in the quiet car. 

So, yes, 

tell me about the time we peeled our skin off of car leather, summer swelter, and 

how you feel guilty for being so alive.

I will explain how each time I lick my lips they become drier than before.

It is a self-waged war on living.