by Chris Farago.
I count small memories as if they were lights on a string, alternating colors
and years and differing quality of breath. At 6 I am alone in a room,
somewhere. Again at 17, and also 12, not quite sure of the past or the
future, then or ever. Today might be Tuesday, or April, or the 90s. The air is
all around me, made of other people’s breath, the light from their eyes
meeting mine with so much intent I have to look elsewhere, look at the sun,
look at the ground and ask it to accept me as its own. I have no imagination
to create this; all of this happened, has happened, will happen again, anon.
Sweaty weather is around the bend, and my ears are beetred at the thought
of it. I convalesce, owing my health to the sky that supports the sun and the
water that bolsters the dead ground below me. I would float in an elevator
shaft if given the opportunity, I know I would, I know the villain would see
their plan become disintegrate ash while I hovered and laughed. I would
laugh and become the Villain of Stars, appear on the back of playing cards,
see myself repeated, hiding intentions and truth with a broad broad smile.