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Eleven Dirty Dishes
Eleven dirty dishes in the sink. All that's left of the
dinner party. Not a drop of wine. She still asleep, blankets bunched into a head of cauliflower. One long
leg, one surprisingly wide foot, projecting out. I
dreamed of New York, woke with my arm asleep
beneath her pelvis. The slowed seep of blood through
flattened arteries. Is this how we settle? Like a
house settles? A hangover the size of Brooklyn, sickly sweet water from base of neck
and into one sinus. I write poems on matchbooks
these days, just enough—smoke one pack and left on the
sidewalk—all of it, every drop.
Jonathan Carr is a writer and multimedia artist. He is the Editor of Magazine Minima, A Journal of Micro-Fiction. His work has recently appeared in Freezerbox, The Other Voice, The Trinity Review, The Voyeur, Poems that Go, and Diagram. Much of his work can be found on his website—http://www.negativespacemedia.com
In Posse:
Potentially, might be ... 
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