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| Image source: WBZ (CBS Boston) |
I dragged all the blankets into the bath tub, raided my closets for pillows. Someone
told me to stay away from the windows and my bathroom is swallowed by the dark.
The police scanner snarls until I fall asleep, fitful. I dream about explosions and body
parts walking disjointed through downtown looking for their owners. In the morning,
the only things in my refrigerator are water, eggs, and beer. And I've already had breakfast.
The tanks going by my window look more like a movie when I'm drunk. And I am not drunk.
My stomach is a swarm. The television glows. I'm making bare pasta in my bra, hair wet
from the shower after the lockdown is lifted. Then, shots fired in Watertown and the city
is screaming again. While the bomber is pinned down in a boat my friends tell me about
gunshots and flash bangs and how loud their fear is. They talk about blood and his age
while everyone waits for it to be over. And then dancing. The people flood the streets.
I eat all of the Oreos, put my feet up, and open each brown bottle slow, meticulous.
Meaghan Ford is a writer from New Jersey who fell in love with the big city shit. She's a regular at the Boston Poetry Slam at the Cantab Lounge and has helped organize the National Poetry Slam in both 2011 and 2013. Her work has appeared in Amethyst Arsenic, Phantom Kangaroo, The Legendary, and The Scrambler; she was also a 2012 Write Bloody finalist. Most days she can be found lurking around the local food trucks or taking dystopian photographs in odd places.
