My father is a dead father; my mother is a dead mother
and I, a child-victim left to wander the rat-infested streets of
New York with you, my villain
the cloak of ordinary shrouds your eyes (the tanked-up bum waves his dirty arms)
pure white, my face
useless chatter of you and me and the future we both have
while you chase a dream in the moneyed city
to say we’d always spend our lives together but to what end?
A house in Scarsdale with drugged up kids and the right numbers on our phone?
I’d rather be having a heart attack in a Brooklyn car crusher
or slam dancing with a spiked iron subway grate
left like a rabid dog to squeal and claw
a layer of white hiding red-soaked eyes leaves me bleeding to death
you’re a tear in the fabric of my existence
the demon knocking on my thoughts
the sound of a car crash on a dead end street
the nightmare inside a dream
the splatter against the wall.
You’re negative space.
Jill Evans lives on Long Island and has worked in the magazine publishing industry for many years as a writer and editor. She is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing for a local community college. Her work has been published in regional papers such as Newsday and The East Hampton Star.