Zero Hour, by Tyler Thier
She always liked her size--
she did wonder, though,
what it would be like to be thin,
enough to be a swimsuit model,
enough to flee her housing block
and frame herself in blinding white
deep in corporate studio space--
another gleam in the city centre’s sheen.
She knows now, after the sirens--
what she doesn’t know
is that the bombs dropped at all,
that her bed is ash and her body
mangled, the neighbourhood outside
grayer and the city centre too,
sky aflame, sheen no longer blue.
What she knows now is a place--
perhaps the inside of a peach
or air bubble suspended
in strawberry milk, where she
lies with rouged skin, sculpted
in something flesh-like, maybe silk.
She knows her body is immobile--
hip bones sloped, stomach like sleet,
her fingers, however, a bit too
bleak—bamboo stalks locked in
death prayer with no reprieve.
Tyler is an adjunct professor and freelance writer currently living in Brooklyn. His previous publications include the New York Public Library Zine, Film Matters Magazine, and Tuck Magazine, as well as professional readings of his one-act play in both New York City and Toronto. When not grinding on the freelance scene or rooting himself in academia, he can most likely be found enjoying "bad movie" nights with his friends.
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