by Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
“Is this my purgation?” Georgia coughs into her shirt. Slit wrists still gaping, no more blood. The plastic bag that wrapped her head wrung into a thick bangle. It rustles softly like the ceiling, its changing patterns of gears and levers like Johannes Baargeld after the war. Low gasp, shoulders against rampart. Georgia pinches herself. Reminder, one’s human condition like a caulcole. She inhales, deep to hear her lungs. A rush. Paper. Mill. Fire, black rectangle. Coade stone. Falling purlins and posts. Cherie’s Mary Janes down the stairs. Window pried open. No note. No pallbearer or hearse or urn for Baargeld.
Last updated May 31, 2011