It is Sunday, five AM. He says I don't want to kill you. The avenue is dark; orange light from the sun oozes between apartment buildings. I struggle to find my $10 for the van, $5 for food. Coins must fall. I do not hear them fall. I hear nothing but his voice. Your wedding ring, your watch. My ring sticks and I assure him: It will come. He points to a drive that leads under the nearby museum stairs. Go down there. Obediently, I start down the driveway as from a far place that used to be me I hear myself weep: Now I can't see my husband. I look back to see the man watching me, and suddenly I realize that he is going to shoot.

New York City
all the rocks
have voices