Every Day,
A Century


The pawn shop man said, sure you wanna sell that ring? Fetchya only forty bucks. Still she twists the white gold from her finger, a formaldehyde frog of skin underneath. Last yank a knucklebone bruise. Girdle of Venus, Mound of Apollo. Fist smear on a dust thick window. Dune grass tumbleweeds skip down a washed out road. Fat grey ocean pukes out hypodermic needles, tangled heaps of seaweed and rusty crushed horseshoe crabs. Cheap clink on the glass counter. She’d hoped for Platinum. He counts the stained crumpled bills onto her open hand. She asks: how much for the violin?

Kim Frank Kirk


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