Postcards from Providence

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1.

I find pieces of you throughout this city. And as you know I like to make, patiently and meticulously, living things out of ephemera.

Let me be specific: you paint your fingernails so that the dirt and dried blood won't show.

We were heading back from the Avon drinking gin and tonic out of an Evian bottle. I still have your thumbprints along my thighs.


2.

The buildings downtown are like bones in a museum, glued together and hollow. There is nothing behind any of the windows, but us. Lived there for two years and still, every once in a while, I’ll find the echo of something you said trapped in a stairway or between panes of glass.


3.

The sweet and sticky smell of pot and Coca-Cola. We wake and microwave cheese on tortillas. Your chastity, you told me, was just resistance to bending.

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