Ron Gibson, Jr.
A fall, a clatter of knees, a head held low, talking to the unseen. I wish to be, she said, through breaths of fog, dotted like Morse Code. As if her substance was a space of air in a Ziplock bag, trapped in the cold front of a Frigidaire, ashamed, paying penance. She prayed past ice crystals, sherbet, dead cows, and forgotten leftovers, burned to shine aluminum. The door would open, enlightenment blinking on, symbiotic relationship, teasing, tinfoil blindfolded pupils shrinking into the paranoia of crinkle cut fries, light cast on a myth, stale white and wrinkled, and then close with a nonchalant zip. Never again would she warm up to the day or the day warm up to her. She prayed to be Joan of Arc, or perhaps Ganymede, pouring martinis for the gods. Chill, shake, pour. She prayed to ice crystals bunched against cardboard flaps of ice cream containers. She prayed for brownouts and inner city disinterest. For the unthawing, when she could breathe again and rot in peace.