Her body empties itself in smeared cursive in
a language she didn’t know was in her and he
still drunk on a red woman’s whispers
pulls her out by her hooked underarms
and her limpness reminds him of oil-sick fish
and her wrists are opened in parallel lines
and he mumbles this again? into wet snake-
hair that will fix his words into statues
she’ll carry later when she leaves him but
for now she is mesmerized by vermillion
stains blooming in the water like paralyzed
penmanship and for a moment his lips touch
that spot behind the ear no one ever touches.
Lindsay Brader is from Moses Lake, Washington and currently lives in Vietnam. Her writing can be found in Literary Orphans, Word Riot, Third Point Press, The Molotov Cocktail, Uppagus, The Bookends Review, and Black Heart Magazine.
You can follow her on Twitter (@lindsaybrader) where she doesn’t say much or email her at firstname.lastname@example.org, where she says more.