In the land of rape and honey, a glass
captures echoes like an insect on the wall.
Barbie-dolls are mutilated, plastic army-men melt in
a bi-curious blue flame. I’m sorry for everything. Tell me
that I can survive being healed. I am not so sure. Forgiveness
is waiting for your total eclipse or an apology. Sometimes, words
mean more than the actions beforehand; some hands weigh heavier
than the swords between them. Yesterday, there was an accident. Sheets
felt longing, the way a dry-cleaning won’t do. Stains must learn to be blown,
shaped by fire—a window that we see through but also admire. Are you looking?
can you see the glass? and all of its color? I need you to remember what I screamed.
Christian Bodney lives in New York City. He is currently working on a hybrid collection of linked essays/memoirs.
