A journal of narrative writing.

Listen to “Colic”
read by Joe Wilkins

If I have loved, I suppose it is because I am supposed to love. I don’t know any other way to say it. Go ahead, scream at me. I don’t know what I’m doing. For instance: the garden’s failing. Last night I sliced through a tomato’s black, grub-run heart and almost ate it anyway. It’s too much. I mean by that everything: fireflies humping brightly in the unmown lawn, another of cat’s dead birds at the front door, the aluminum plant down the street—weedy breath and busted windows. How they’re packing guns again in Arizona. Or the way some kid emailed the whole class his suicide note. What I mean is, why do we even do this? I don’t know but dance anyway around your ridiculous blue room, as you throw your too-heavy head again away from me, little lip-slit a wound, tear letting slip the heart’s scream, why did you do this? (later) Urge and wrestle of neuron, synaptic sizzle and fizz, red-faced dream of—of what? Empty breast? Birth’s bone vise? Or before? Say that watery dawn, in which some screaming cell split, tore itself in trembling two and two and two? I have rent myself as well. Here in the half-dark, I am done and undone: the very space between your breaths shivers, shatters me. Vast as god and sadder, I fall to my knees, praise whatever terror this is that takes and twists your fisted, moon-slick face. Go ahead, scream. Scream and breathe, and I will know you are alive, as I am.