Impossible Bottle (2)
1 Minute Read Time
I would like to withdraw my complaint with its quiet rattling of a car’s
engine as it shakes down Market Street. Like the window fan that stops
clanking one August night, when it’s not heat that sweats us awake
but a bottle of Nero and the body’s ceaseless churning. Nothing is
wrong. Or, the universe is edgeless but finite. Crack of fireworks.
The mattress lifting, then the opening, closing of the bedroom then
bathroom door. One theory laments the invention of the ship
as the invention of the shipwreck. Some days, closing this rift—a syllable
and a peltry of loosening skin—feels like squeezing two masts,
five sails through the neck of a bottle. About this skin, my stomach’s
slackening is centerless, empty. About this syllable, I balance it
on my tongue, a lighthouse casting amber around a craggy shore.
Read more from Issue 22.2.
