by Regina Bresler
Ears are funny things. Funneling in the rest of the world, trapping information. Hanging from our faces, like weather vanes on faulty architecture. Mine hold on to sounds like jars do fireflies. Buzzing about and hitting the sides until the light runs out. Most of last night was flapping its wings the next morning. A single song hung so heavy over my memory that as I sat on the cold porcelain I swore it was blaring through the vents from my neighbor’s apartment. Flicking the light switch down and silencing the fan made the rhythm quit, but up it went, and that voice returned. She must’ve been trying to tell me something about the way I live. About the lack of sleep and smoker’s cough, hitching a ride since the weekend. And here we are, a breath away from the Sabbath.
It is more then sound that lingers. The reverb in my throat seems to be gathering speed. A bit more of my borough is hanging out the hems and drifting into view. But please, don’t point it out. You’ll only make me blush. Throat tickled and hissing out memories, dueling with the bathroom-pipes for airtime, trickling down the dew of the chilled windowpanes we’ve drawn our hearts on. All of me is at attention despite the hour. I am a bass amp with a broken knob. I am the feedback on a frayed copper wire.