by 

Michael Grant Smith

 

The words you express are projections on a scrim of smoke dispersed by your exit. When you vacate this place, the message disappears behind you.

A proxy war rages within your heart. The muscle hollows out until it is as hard and brittle-thin as a Christmas tree ornament. Carpenter ants fight termites in the dark. Press a hand against your breastbone and you’ll hear the battle for yourself.

Holes populate the ground, filling with water. The depressions aren’t deep but spread like footprints. One hundred thousand million billion little lakes; a gingham weave of segments. Facets of an insect’s eye laid flat. It has rained for about a year now and the soil sinks beneath the flood. What can we do when the holes are everywhere and they connect? The world will be ten percent smaller and the only thing left to wonder about is where the next new hole will appear.

It’s time to run for your life but you plead for another fifteen minutes of sleep. Possession of icons, relics, and other religious artifacts will not be tolerated. Some saints called and said they want their bone fragments returned.

Carve your expositions into granite, marble, or basalt. The best remarks virtually etch themselves but will probably elude you. Verbal hash is nothing more than landmarks and crumbs to guide you back to your first home. Remember, stone impermanent enough to bear your scratches becomes smoothed again by time.

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Michael Grant Smith wears sleeveless T-shirts, weather permitting. His writing has appeared in elimae, Ghost Parachute, Longshot Island, The Airgonaut, formercactus, Riggwelter, and others. Michael resides in Ohio. He has traveled to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Cincinnati. To learn too much about Michael, please visit www.michaelgrantsmith.com and @MGSatMGScom.

 

 

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