Breach Street – Isabelle Schneider

In the street there’s an abortion clinic,
methadone dispensary,
tattoo parlour
kebab joint.

Bouncing between,
a shifting biopsy that lactates and eventuates in private bathroom stalls,
and heads in hands.

One cubicle over:
another crisis,
and we see her leap through the cracks in the wall to hide away from this gut-burn
danger man.

He follows her into a dark street and hears her disturbed inhalations,
and he taps on with a key in the door and a wife asleep.

Turn back one page,
Strings of ink lacing up her neck,
the artist hovering over her breast.

A crash outside polarises the crowd in fascination and horror,
the trend embellished with lazy eyed ink skulls dropping off the surface.

They restring their instruments and carry on the concerto: this dissention is less permanent than one into Breach Street.