Ascension

This place where the skyscrapers grow scales, born from borrowed light bouncing off the tall, spindly walls.

This place where the skyscrapers grow scales, born from borrowed light bouncing off the tall, spindly walls. Every year I forget what time of year the mosquitos die, or if they ever do.

I rejoice the little bothers, I sing under warming sun on an earth hoisted like a model set up for photoshoot, wide wings tacked to her arms and the pinpricks dripping little droplets of sanguine blood in concentric circles as she drifts over us. When the blood lands in your glass, you’re supposed to drink it, the woman to my left said.