We lived in a city famous for its ruins. The sky was the same color as the glass heart of an abandoned bride. I asked what the color was called. Gazelle's blood, someone said.
The ancients wrote poetry about blood and pus, rules for living a holy life, such as when and who you could fuck. Newborns twitched all around their feet like poisoned mice.
She talked about the incident with the jellyfish. I put a finger to my lips. The taxi continued climbing the sharp hill that led to all the years ahead.
Some prefer the sea. She turned to look behind her. A pink rose was machine-embroidered on the back of her backpack. The nation mourned.
Out here the light is different -- a sprinkle of holy water under a sky made of ice.
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