Originally published in Reflex Fiction Anthology Volume Two, March 25, 2019
These days, my skull is harder than ever—a gazing ball filled with clear, lucid visions ensconced in a base of ivory that never forgets.
My body is a hermetic chamber and my brain knows its private thoughts. In this intimate space, I hear the rake of sinew and tendon, the whisper of bone on bone.
We’re all in this together, hello, hello.
It happens by orderly regression—by air sighing in and out of joints. Time is an irreconcilable difference that’s slow and drastic, like plate tectonics.
My skin robs the spotlight, crowd-sourcing photons. It has arrived and come into itself as the separate organ shown on charts and diagrams—the ones with clear-cut shapes and lines.
At the beach beneath the pier, there is a peaceful hum of waves. Trucks roll up and down the sand blasting oldies. Fishermen nab steelhead trout. It is all part of a system—whirring zoetrope of arms, legs, fins, and valves.
Rocks crumble down the cliff side as a hawk spreads its wings and pushes off the escarpment, meeting the naked sky. I feel it happen inside—jagged feldspar monoliths scraping the peak of my spine—the sound of nails on chalkboard.
Between these reprises, I’ve learned the truth: my body is a landscape, and the mineral world has grown indifferent to it.