Left on Read: November 12
The noise of a tiny glass jar, lid screwed on tight. Inside: a handful of baby teeth.
Someone on a bicycle at night against the wind, no lights. Riding with one hand to take turns keeping the other one warm in a coat pocket. The coat pocket has no zipper or buttons. Inside: wad of tangled string, the receipt from a gas station ATM that displays negative balance, and a small glass jar.
No one can hear it clinking because the Doppler slur of traffic sounds like smeared mascara in the relentless wind.
The bicyclist is lit up in quarter notes of headlight glare as cars pass at a predictable distance.
Beneath the bridge, a cemetery rests its head on the shoulder of the railroad tracks.
Becca says, a pyrophone is an instrument powered by combustion. In order to produce sound, it must be on fire.
In our dream band, on pyrophone:
Becca Carson (she/they) is a queer poet, artist, and former high school teacher who recently returned to graduate school to pursue a degree in clinical mental health counseling. They live in Missoula, MT with their wife and kids. When they aren’t writing or creating things they like to read, travel, and explore outdoors. Becca is the author of Flight Path, a debut collection of poems.