Smith and Nelson

Jessica Newman

Moon dousing the aluminum through and through. Scraps of pillar and beam. The unrolled film of plastic bags all knitted and torn back.

This is where they would live. The dirt scratched raw. Everywhere a tangle.

They would haunt, let nothing be built there. Pilfer and break. All the foreman’s nails disappeared. Buyers would fear the ghost of the place. How it angered — no sudden noise, no late-night working, keep the moonlight. Buyers would feed stories to their youngest children: do not walk the lot alone.

They slept beside rubble, woke with bodies pocked by stone. They ran their hands across this stubbled flesh.

Hold fast to me, one said.

The other said nothing, did not let go.