Imperfecta – Prose by Amy Barnes

IceFloe Press


I knew what I was doing when I swallowed the glass piano.
It’s still a heavy burden. I read books and watch PBS documentaries on Victorian women who also carried glass pianos.
“You read too much,” Jared tells me.
“Glass delusions are what they’re called.” I tell him.
“I know, Audrey,” he says.
I find something romantic about privileged women who swallowed glass pianos, like mine. The ennui they suffered sounds better than my depression, more fainting couch than therapist’s couch.
Jared packs his trumpet to leave for practice. We both know he’s going to sit in the corner coffee shop away from PBS and glass instruments. I’m going to stay home and protect this thing that squashes my guts, huddles against my ribs, perches on my now-empty uterus.
I used to play a real, glossy black piano, wearing a black empire-waist dress. Jared’s trumpet sang love…

View original post 263 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.