Woah. You’ve already met his parents? said the friend over beers in a quiet bar in the city.
We’re not messing around, man, she said. I’ve met his parents; it’s all on Facebook. If you saw it, you’d understand.
Fissures
September 14, 2011The alkalinity fissured the tips of my fingers, gouged gaps between skin and skin that left me fumbling with zippers and buttons. They healed to thick dots just beneath the surface, as legible as Braille. If you read them, they would speak of survival, of joy, of hope for the coming year. They are as permanent as tattoos, but as invisible as change.
No bullshit
September 10, 2011The bartender came to the middle of nowhere because he’d tired of cities. He’d made his money elsewhere, and now was content to pour rye into tumblers and open bottles of beer for patrons who leaned heavily on the bar, weighed down by the emptiness outside.
He mapped the landscape: One bar for the liberals, one where the washed-up showgirls come out of retirement late at night after a few too many, and his place, where people keep to themselves.
There’s no bullshit here, he said. People come in, drink, lie to each other and leave.
The genesis of tears
September 6, 2011Are you crying because you’re happy, he asked, or because you’re sad?
Both, I said, but that comprised just part of it. I was happy and sad, but also wide awake and exhausted, sated and starving for more, ready to escape and never wanting to go, and grateful, grateful, ever-grateful for this otherworldly home.
Gift
August 22, 2011You’ll have to put it on me, he said, and he crouched a little so I could reach up to clasp the pendant around his neck. I had just taken a photo of a metal horse; he had just walked us through a map of marvelous things. I knew nothing, really, of what lay ahead. But this year, we’ll arrive at the dust together.
I have this year’s pendant, I told him before we left. But I want to put it on you again when we get there.
Dancehall secret
August 12, 2011When he came around, she felt her heart two-step, its quick quick, slow slow rhythm turning her in circles. She knew better than to tell him—he was more trouble than a last-call drink, and smoother than a slow country waltz.
She did the best she could to keep her eyes from him when he circled the floor with other women. She chose not to tell any of her friends, no matter how much whiskey she kicked back. She consoled herself, some nights, with the thought that a dancehall secret is better than none at all.
Open to carving
July 10, 2011He wondered how wind might shift the direction of things, sculpt paths differently, smooth the world’s edges. It seemed the only fair trade, he thought, as he walked headfirst into the pressure of air. If his eyes had to dry out until they ached, there ought to be a benefit, even if the change took years.
He was open to carving. He was open to gust-hewn paths that didn’t yet exist in this town where weather arrived brutishly, without apology.
100 Proof 