St. Sabrina says "I just don't breathe in the city like I used to.
Here the light is scraped clean on a rock
and left in the sun to burn."
That comforts both of us.
I hold her close as I sit on my bed at night,
silently listing every stain on the carpet
of our building's hallway like a prayer
and trying not to remember the nightmare
I had earlier this morning.
A boy in a tall man's body,
his mouth pulled back
like a fish when he speaks.
he's managed to break the lock
on the cabinet where the sharp objects are kept.
"Usually he's so nice,"
Sabrina murmurs after I tell her about it,
"But I guess if they fiddled with his meds enough
we'd all be in trouble."
I nod and kiss her spine, my fingers humming
over the slick polyester of her fin.
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