Alice Sally Ashaka Fier Fear Fire Stone (part 1 Sevastopol Piano)

Jesse S. Mitchell

1. She was born in that whirlwind of anguish, mammalian,
    An X chromosome in each clenched fist.
    Gripping tight, that burning bright, whatever you can mold, not a mockery, not a rage, whatever you can
    Hold.
    And grinding down the pauper, that miserly age, not a avarice but afraid, a breeze too thin to be a wind,
    Too light,
    To do any perceptible good.
     Her feet moving slowly, skating sock covered feet across the bare wood, the rug rolled up, crumpled corners.
    She clicks her fingertips on the keys, making voices.
    Double spaced the tiger, so the lion-lines don’t get blurry.
    Beats out a rhythm, syllabic, in a flurry.
    And devil faced the inquiry, because post-structuralism tells us more about ourselves
    Than any of us ever want to truly know.
    Give up.  Palms up for the alms, the golden shining charity of surrender.  Let go.
    She throws herself down on her bed.  Back aching.  Skin cold.
She slides her hand down.  Towards her waist band, her fingers feel her skin, the backs of her hands rough against denim.
    It started as a masturbatory action but it lost all its charm as the energy drained from deep in her core and fled low into the bed.  Gone.
   She stares up at the clicking clock, tick tock, tries to disassemble the seconds as they pass, make them
   last.
   Analyses.  Her thick glasses, the glare too glutinous. She dissects those minutes, dying by the thousands
   All around.  Separate the moments from the fluidity of  the duration of experience, like notes from the
   Melody.  This one here.  That one there.
   Hum along.
    The Sevastopol piano in the other room creaks heavy on the floor.  Inadequate the support.  The rotten
    Retort of things too delicate for the work, emaciated.  Placated by her sympathies, her mind is eased.
    Most of the worries cease.  The structures remain.  Safety.  Complacent in the assurance.