Sour

Something in the magic of the sour blueberries and yogurt made the start of the day feel somewhat violet — or should I say blue. No. Go ahead and say blew. The day blew before it really got started. She, standing there, with a mouthful of bitterness the sun being smothered by the haze of factory smoke and wildfires. There was something more acrid than usual in the air, like a sweetness that cloyed at the edge of sludge, something sickly in the burning. The sharpness in her mouth brought her back to the moment she was inhabiting — a smudged pink sunrise beyond the billowing, and the nascent thought that something was dead and rotting just beyond the perimeter fence. She swallowed the bitterness with one gulp and let out a long exhalation. Instead of feeling lighter she was leaden and off to face whatever was out there waiting.

“there’s a harmonica tattooed on my collarbone
I can feel death’s mouth on it lips wiry & hot”

— Eduardo C. Corral / “Testaments Scratched into a Water Station Barrel”