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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Six Issue One |
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Not Famous, This spring replaced a dozing winter — one where the sky opened its blue eyes to snow only twice — For Emerson Babylon, this spring rose from orchid buds whose hard-shelled heads unwound for the sun, whose parasitic feet wove beneath leftover leaves. But because his eyebrows turned to hanging icicles — their black scuff marks now faded to the winter — he left his Pacific lodging and marched East. Even after all these seasons, he still searched for something right. Maybe he went mad from all the walking, but he kicked up fairy dust and flower petals on his way to the end of the world. Or Oklahoma. He took root in red dirt and waited for the apocalypse. The Second Coming. Oh, and he ate ice cream. Alone. For days. Another spring: Emerson dropped his Albuquerque satchel inside a too-small café. Papers became birds in flight. One, he saw, nested in her lap. That woman. He'd snuck candy glimpses of her sun-washed hair. Now, he had a new perspective — Her eyes. Beneath her brow's penumbra, they were two fountain pens that inked a blue life spring. A brand-new, silver-coated, chocolate-centered beginning. One not raised from the apocalypse or a tragic end. Like zombies. He asked her to dinner. Her answer was yes. In another season, when all the world was falling, he learned she understood stonework. Before they married, she told him, "We'll build together — — Our home and ourselves." So they mixed clay with the blood from their calluses until the bricks that sheathed their house was their body. And they could not leave it. One night, when each orchid outside died, and winter returned in waves like blankets, she drew him into their bed, folded covers into paper hats, and laid a naked self before him. They had been two, he realized, as he unwound her and wove in his roots. Now, they were one. And he could not leave her. And that was right. |
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