Post Road Magazine #27

Another Day

Michael Bazzett

They woke with no alarm, which left her calm.
Winter sun like weak tea through the window glass.
Her head nestled in the pillow, mashing a concave
dent that held the shape of sleep and matted hair.
Then he watched her rise. Her head pulled clean

from the nest, leaving her expensive haircut behind.
Your head is an egg, he said, and she touched the
smooth skin with contemplative fingers, staring
down at the pillow, at what could have been
a threatened animal flattening into its burrow.

Well, she said. I knew I shouldn't have let her
use the acid scissors. She said it was all the rage
with the stars. Nothing comes from rage, he said.
Ha-Ha, she said. She walked over to the mirror
and rubbed her dome gently, like a man in love

with his bowling ball. It looks good, he said. It looks
clean. She sucked in her cheekbones and offered
a barely perceptible nod. I guess so. But remember
yesterday, when I kept looking in the mirror and
saying my hair was getting shorter? He nodded.

Well, maybe next time you'll believe me. He smiled
weakly and kept nodding. He wanted to speak but felt
his tongue pulsing behind its wall of teeth, quivering
like a lizard. Not again, he thought, remembering
the last time it had gotten loose. He had found it

down by the river, under an damp overhang, lying
with the ancient salamanders in the mossy silence.

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