in the middle of a windy winter on the poor side of town when the economy is bouncing back and you forgot to buy before the bubble broke. Do not lose your job and get on your bike to ride to a river where only Russian families go. Where men drive their minivans onto the freight ship that is there to take them away. Do not stand by the river with only four ounces of absinthe in your hand, between dead and dying trees black as nothing against the grainy shore. Do not take o your hat or try to bend your frozen toes against the web of last year’s shoe. Do not open your mouth and try to eat the clouds. Go quietly to dark places that accept you: unemployment offices, a bedroom, a canyon. Go to the lowest place and say, I am here.
Becca Yenser bartends and writes in Portland, Oregon. She is the author of several chapbooks, including Small, Bright Things and All Because of Saturday Night. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in Paper Darts, Metazen, Filter Literary Journal, >killauthor, and HOOT literary magazine. She is Writer-in-Residence at Mother Foucault’s Bookshop for the month of April, where a new collection of short fiction is in the works.
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