NIGHT OUT

We head for the door. The bartender,
With shattered glass teeth, flashes a bloody smile
At the fat rat regular, who once tried to wrap
His wormy, hairless tail around my beckoning
Thigh. You’re slung over my shoulders, a skinned
Stag in winter. The door spits us out
Into night’s cool embrace. The Uber is missing
A wheel and pulled by a powder horse, chained to
The hood. The seats smell like kerosene and pulled teeth.
You nod to music that only you can hear. Your
Head pressed against the window, the glass liquifies
And rehardens, trapping you. You don’t notice.
Removal will be a nightmare. I hope this doesn’t
Hurt my Uber rating. I pluck five stars
From the sky and cling to them like a lifeline.
A needle has done the waltz down your arm,
Leaving purple and black footprints. Unlike ones
On the beach, these won’t wash away with the tide.
Whatever blooms in your veins is, like every black-
Tongued baby, born to dance. Conceived in the
Bathroom stall of a bar where patrons trade
Scraps of daylight for endless night. Wherever
You are now, I hope the moon lights your way.

Samantha Pollard is a current junior studying English at the University of Southern California. Originally from Seattle, she loves the rain and, as you read this, is probably curled up with her cat somewhere reading a book. You can follow Samantha on Instagram here.