“how do you say no?” – prose-poem by Maggy Curran

Fiction, Poetry


it was so quiet. i could hear my hair fall from my head to the carpeted ground, the fly landing on the dirty glass countertop. he walked in two hours early; i dropped the receiver, my fingers numbly hitting the keys with a repressed confidence. an effort to make up for the drift off, lulled to sleep by the bells of the ring. the dial tone whines, a distant sad infant.  

it hums along with his breath in my ear and he backs me up against bookcases and filing cabinets, bones clink against metal with a hollow thud. i wore a blue dress with flowers, now crumpled around my waist, pulled down and up revealing unimpressive breasts, thin white legs. his face is a black hole as the stack of contracts rustle in rhythm. the scent of stagnant water and metal lingers from a now dry carpet- i taste it in my mouth, under my tongue. so, so quiet — my mind silently breaks into pieces and falls at our feet.


(Note: the Magritte image is from http://www.brandweeknrx.com/2007/08/the-worlds-firs.html)


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