The Author has been Tweeting

It is three-thirty-three am. The author has been drinking

since last Mothers' Day. The author has been tweeting

since before then, smirking every time she finishes

another little missive full of bitterness and bile. 

Aside from these, the author hasn't written 

in a while. 

The author has stopped taking meetings that she must

attend in person. On Teams or Zoom the author 

hides behind a screenshot, hides her lack of 

makeup, hides the network of exploded

vessels starring up her face like maps

of trafficked merchandise.

Hides the teeth already missing

from her smile. 

The author has the news on in the background,

set to silent. When she sees the news from

Ayiti she screams and turns away, throws

a bottle if a bottle is close to her hand

and empty. It would be their

crowning glory. 

Poor Slavs are good, but she knows

that her clients love black babies

best of all. 

The author has been travelling by yacht

to get round airports more than

customs, and she keeps a well

-stocked stateroom, and the

Wi-Fi signal rarely drops

onboard. 

And, in the middle of the ocean,

tells herself no-one can find her

and ignores the sound

of rotors overhead.