Shelly Weathers | 13
minimal sway. Lana digs her fingernails into my flaking skin, twists and jolts with every step. She dislocates my ankle. Sinew and skin elongate, pull away from her. Lana works her hand under my calf, but finds it harder, having broken what she must carry.
We arrive at the designated display area. Michael marks me down. Gently, he fans my hair around my face. Lana kicks my loose foot side-to-side, as if more force will heal the damage or mask it. Michael motions for her to join him. They circle around me. Their circles grow wider, their touch more distant. Rows of starved beta above me drift through time, dissipating in unbroken torpor. I join them in multiplied divisions of spirit and particle, energy and potential, as we leak fluids and gases into our immediate environment. I experience the seasons as inventory. I dream: Michael and Lana as a couple, my bones in their basket, mirk of beta awash beside me, we slide through checkout, we change, we disassemble, our parts compare for value, value. ♦