Joanna Lee

J o a n n a   L e e 

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Singarela (if i really were a princess)

i’d write our song to gypsy music in dark bars on late weeknights, the wail of clarinets and accordions wielded by skinny-legged musicians vibrating through the cheap plastic seat and up into my bones. we’d sit picking the scabs of the past with oily fingertips, thinking there is resonance here somewhere, the candle-lit southpawed slant of scrawl running parallel to words i wouldn't understand. like when you said some things have to change. like when the lead singer called her a heartbreaker, and i remember i said break is really not the right word. hearts aren't like porcelain. they're all muscle and mallow. if i were to pluck yours out of its wet cavity and throw it, beating, on the empty dance floor, it might even bounce.