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| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| You’ll never believe it, how
she dances. She bops her head like a chicken sprinting, and her two arms flail about like she’s captain of the deaf-school debate team. The music lessens, she leans in, says “This isn’t a real city, you know.” I nod, she flashes me this five-star grin. She’s from Montreal, thinks I’ve never been west of the bridge over Moncton, she doesn’t even speak any French. The drumbeat punches on: the sound of a ten-man firing squad. The spotlight spins, and drop-dyes her left breast blue. |
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| (Barrington St., Halifax) |