forensic science. athens, ga.

Posted by on November 10, 2011 in blog | 0 comments


in athens

on a friday night

ed from austin asks

me to dance.


who does

electrical contracting work

and a mean two-step

but has to leave because

his friends want to party somewhere else.


and then marc, spelled with a c,

which I know

to be true simply

because this

fratty-haired boy

studying econ and sports med

wants to dance with me

backed up to his hips so he

can thrust against

me but

I am old enough to be his mother

I say.

it doesn’t matter

he says as

he pulls me harder against

his pelvis

his keys imprint

my skin

before he leaves me, too


and I am left shuttling

black piles of


and roll gear

down a flight of stairs

where ian

sweeps and gathers

dust and dirt

and lipstick-stained cigarette


offal from the partiers

that he ignores

because he is so busy talking

to those of us

who are also working to carve our way out

of the night



I reply

when ian asks my name

(ed got it wrong, and marc never asked)

and he

says it is a pretty name-


he notes

and when I say

it was,

before angelina jolie

came along,

he says,


but she spells her

name like

a lie.

you’re just angelina,

and that’s better

ian says and closes the metal door against

the crowded street

and me.



in athens

on a friday night,

while ed and I two-step

and oedipus

encourages me to gouge

out my eyes

as he throws his youth against a body

that hasn’t

yet forgotten

the rhythm of what it is

to be


and ian dissects fully

the meaning

of a beautiful and famous woman’s



a man and a friend

or a woman

and her man

and too much alcohol

(three shots

of why don’t you love me anymore)

(or five shots

of how the hell could you do this to me)

chemically combust into a melodrama

that somehow

plays itself out

in four acts

on my car

in the parking lot

behind the bar



for me,

oblivious, two

stories away, upstairs trying

to stay awake by dancing with strangers

and wishing for a good night’s sleep,

a trail of blood


of someone’s life

left as evidence

as he is thrown from

hood to trunk

against windows

and mirrors

now spattered with a story

that is most

certainly sadder


my own.



the blood dries brown and rust

and dirty


the unwashed unwaxed

mineral green

of my car’s hood

and driver’s side


finger-smudged across the trunk

where I tried to clean it

off before I realized

what it was.


but the rain

is coming soon,

tonight, even

as I type

these words,

a storm

called ida

wants to resolve

the drama, offering

to wash blood

into earth

and fallen leaves



and my moving metal



since friday


feels more like forensic science

than safety.

evidence. (2011) angelina bellebuono

evidence. (2011)
angelina bellebuono

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