by Era Pasquale
on our street
the summer wind
is a hot breath
of jasmine.
i like how it hits me
in the nose, soft and sweet.
standing there for
a second to take it in,
i watch as a dog finishes
his morning duty.
it oozes out,
all liquid.
poor thing.
i walk towards
the stoop to smoke
my daily habit.
for my own movements,
not because i'm addicted.
it helps to push the flow
along so i don't
strain and tear
something precious.
she tells me
there are some things
we don't need
to know about
one another.
like the frequency
or the consistency
of our bodily functions.
and though
we're trapped in
the same skin
with those same
old skin urges,
i respect
her wishes to not
know the intricacies
of my excess.
from up here
this big town
looks like a real city.
down there,
the river water
becomes an oil spill,
dark and slick and
squelching like
the tracts inside us.
how much waste
lives in there
without our knowing.
the city ensures
it's clean enough
but we don't
dare to touch it
with our hands.
not if we don't have to.
we like to live
in ignorance of
how much rot
we ingest,
how we are ourselves
made of filth.
the last time we
sat by it, we watched
a family of ducks
circumvent floating
human shit.
or whatever that was.
she tells me
i should drink
more water.
it helps, she says,
it helps.
****
Era Pasquale is a writer, painter, and filmmaker. They live in Oregon and edit Dreck.