Bird

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He crossed her wrists behind her, walked her into the room. She was gowned in a towel from the tub, damp still, the day passing — cold, the green fuse blown. The city was flattened, looked to be; it was a poster of itself, grainy, famous in any light. He walked her where she could see it, where she could see the bridge, the man on a thread descending, his tiny pointed flame. She saw the hot blue bramble of welder’s sparks fizzing out over the river. Across the river: the fabulous city.

He had set screw eyes in the floor. The floor was grooved, adrift with hair, the deep tarry blue of the ocean. He trained the heater on a patch of floor to warm the boards she would lie on. He pulled the towel off, helped her down in stages, onto her knees, her back.

The boards were gummy; they smelled of paint. They smelled of his dog who leaked in her sleep. She let him tie her — wrist and wrist and ankles. As he wished. He arranged her as he wished. He spread out her hair like a headdress, tall, like grass the wind has knocked down. He turned her toes out. He turned her wrists up when he tied her.

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