Change
by Taylor Hunsaker
Her eyes could not shut, as if salt had tarnished them.
Vibrations of metal: a door hinge’s scream.
A blanket—no, a scrap—scratched the underside
of her limbs. Her wrists were bound by zip ties.
The straw thrown through the bars had a dirt rim.
His pumpkin gut laughed as he grinned.
Her carousel, carrying consistency,
ran in reverse. Its orange tune stuttered.
Under his seaweed hair balloons breathed
inside his skull. Helium kept him high.
In the cell’s concrete darkness was a sponge;
she hadn’t noticed the faucet before he came.
Black, faded work boots thumped closer.
His mouth reeked of spoilt meat. Then nothing.