Photo by Skye Li / North by Northwestern


3 a.m. in a parking lot. Engines hush

and hold their breath for her debut. A tour

en l'air, an assemblé, the ballerina

twirls from the heavy beating of electric

bass to the quiet humming of the night.

She curls up like a baby in the womb,

tides running high and low. Her head flows in

a pool of bubbly sprite, baptized by a

sweet mix of vodka and pink juice. She looks up

at me: “Just give me five more minutes please!”

The night shines bright above her. I tell her

to let go. A river flows out of her,

with lumps of jelly and remorse. Through pale

lips and furry coats, dividing the lot

into half, nurturing both continents as it goes.

And when she drains herself of such creations,

she falls into my arms, whispering her

affection to my ears. “I’m never doing

this again,” she says. “There, there.” I brush her

hair and let the whiskey-scented lies go.