| Let us enter this again. In the context of this paragraph, we are hurtling backward through space, toward a small opening: I press my hand to your lip and you bite. You bite my spine. Ben his jawline was stellar. Ben his curlicue. His cellphone iPhone. His and everyone's iPhone, in my hand, on my lap, at the mezzanine. The opera is going full speed. The soprano arrives to tell Falstaff, to tell him. I fall from a great height onto a woman's head. It splits and I become the split, standing later for a portrait. The hero of the town walks alone at night, carrying in his eye a single feather. He wears this feather in his eye as a kind of penance. For his bravery many men will die for many years to come Copyright © 2016 Anaïs Duplan. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment