The Long Count

...and I saw the number of my days on the big stone calendar. I saw them given out, each given their own names and set aside for their own uses. See, father, these years are yours, given over to the work of my hands as established by your example. See, mother, these years are yours, given over to your memory. See, brother! See! These years, the best and choicest, have been reserved for you! This stock of days I carry are colored by you and remain yours, long after your own meager calendar has come to an end.

Papa Legba

You left your crazy behind, babe, failing and fading it clung to me and it's your sleepless nights I'm hit by like bullet after bleary-eyed bullet.

Is this what pushed you out over mountains?

sgt.mongoose@gmail.com

We learn our names all over again in this world--the tap of fingers substituting for words. That's simple, we know it, it's obvious. There's a magic, though, to your name when you hear it or say it, and the names we make up for ourselves in this world are no different. There's muscle memory there, typing it to identify ourselves, and the tiniest rush of happiness:

This is who I am. This is who I chose to be.

And I Can't Say What I Want To Say

You. Will. Not. Come out of your house and that is okay with me, I'm not standing on no front porch waiting I'm warm in here. I'm across the street (you're across the street) and we can see each other and wave, looking up from our knitting.

We'll never leave, but one day we'll hold up our arms to show that we've both been working on the exact same sweater.

No Man Is An Island

He makes with his mind, out of ectoplasm or thought-energy or whatever astral plane BS George Noory is on about tonight.

In his room there are universes after school, places where black eyes fade and humiliation is forgotten and she's there, all of her, the only girl who knows his name.

He hears his dad at the door and everything disappears. He can't know, he'll never understand.