A heavy, humid day to September’s end an old tobacco and sweat-encrusted queen crookedly steps from the backseat of a car and shuffles across the white piazza. Middle-aged to twilight, she says to herself, I know why he’s pulled open his chest in all those pictures, his heart there. Stops. Lights a long cigarette and the filter brushes, catches upon a faint film of stubble. If only she’d die and let me get on with it. I’d finally have space to breathe.
Queen of the Catacombs