“Devil’s Hole, next stop.” She had woken up to order champagne. She pulled out a cigarette. “You got a lighter?” "I don’t think you can smoke in here, Jenny.”
By Allison O’Donnell 4 years ago in Fiction
Sometimes I will lie prone in a field on my belly, feeling the pulse of my blood in my hips, feet, armpits. I’ll sigh to melt my ribs
By Allison O’Donnell 4 years ago in Poets
Don't forget how you biked the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. You were– in the clouds but distant from them. Plump and pink
