everybody, everything

i.

they buried her in the concrete and slapped

a grave between two chevys. city

girl made of brick made of mold made

of shattered bottles and cracked floors.

they buried her in the concrete because

she wanted to feel the cars thunder above

her. she wanted to feel them roar. and roll. and

sputter and bellow and eat the earth.

ii.

when the moon glows white at night the

air is thick and heavy. like bread it

rises and like bread it is stagnant.

she had drowned every day in that air, drowned

like everybody else. drowned in so much

smoke and drowned in so much exhaust

and drowned in so much gas

that when they found her dead it was no

different.

she’d already died a hundred times over.

iii.

the countryside used to be a wide green.

so green it hurt her eyes. so green it could’ve

swelled up and skimmed the sky, bursting

into a million little pieces. she never

wanted to die. but she knew that when the

green started to fade her breath would soon

stutter too.

iv.

the night before city girl made of brick

was buried between two chevys the stars

stopped shining. the air hitched. it was too

late but still everything stopped. it was too

late but still everybody thought. still they

wondered if what they’d done to the earth

was ever worth it. if everything they had

killed was going to kill them.