Freshwater Fish Auzelle Jones
“Play something,” I tell him. We merge into rush-hour traffic, streams of red, yellow, white lights bounding north. His first track’s notes glide along, but my hands tense. Hampered drums plus six lanes dodging whiskey groans, smoke, and airport exits. Freshwater fish. The city appears, then it turns—furious, steady crashing. Knitted limbs. Bold letters. Knew this would happen, just go ahead anyway. Cymbals splash, fade. An off-ramp approaches, cars blur around us. Atlanta Tampa Chattanooga. “Keep driving,” he says without looking at me.
Practical Advice for Practical Girls (No Swells) Auzelle Jones
I say I don’t want to spin so hard, but I keep taking on water. Thinking the crash of train on track, rusted-out razors, pitch-black skies are all just coincidence. I can float no matter what. We walk home in the rain and have the same conversation. I pass the exits, my legs snap beneath me, he makes another blank suggestion. Is it just me? Does everyone dive in the deep end? Like when she leaned in so I could hear her over the stereo. “Don’t make rules,” she said. “Then you won’t have a problem.”
Poetry and visual art review based in Durham, North Carolina.