By Miya Mastrofini

Wednesday, the house is all shutters and fresh paint, flowers in a vase and porch swings
Thursday, there is nothing.

We are a nation of conquerors and corpses.

Wednesday, bird song and windchimes
Thursday, there is silt in the streets.

You tell the girl that you love her but tomorrow it’s less a tire swing,
More a noose

Your window is sand and then it’s glass and then it’s the television that’s never off
Your door is a tree and then there’s a wreath on it and then it’s forced open by a crowbar

April, then April again and oh! April again.
Every year it rains, every year streets run red and grey and all other colours of rust
Spring is decay, spring is death, blah blah blah
Spring is broken contracts and a train that won’t ever stop

Last night you stayed up late but the tv was off
Last night you stayed up late and your ears were bleeding but the radio wasn’t playing,
Nothing was playing, nothing was on.

You’ll sing one day but the next the bird feeder is tossed in the fire
‘Cause we don’t have any more firewood and winter is cold
Please stop talking now, I don’t want to hear it.

Before I died I asked for a coffin made of poplar
But was buried in a concrete one instead
I don’t mind, I’m dead, remember?

Smash the clock all you want but whatever you put in the oven will still burn
Go pick wildflowers and kiss the girl,
But that doesn’t mean tomorrow she isn’t dead,
And that doesn’t mean tomorrow the field isn’t houses.
Tomorrow the field is houses, and you wear all black.

Cry your heart out, and then sell your soul for tonight’s meal
They’ll tell you it’s a big deal, but it’s not,
Boxes upon boxes in someone’s office,
Old ladies and six year olds and dreamers and lovers.

It doesn’t matter who you are, that bullet will still kill you,
And that dollar bill in your mouth will still taste like pomegranate seeds
It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done,
You’ll still end up dead in that rubble,

Wednesday, the kettle is on and whistling
Thursday, it’s all smashed glass and dead birds, funerals and faded photographs