88 mph

Photo by John Andrew Rice

Yesterday I became a time traveler.

Yesterday, I drank a potion in a green vial and I didn’t shrink and I didn’t sprout wings but now I see auras and it’s not what you think. It’s not pink and purple and blood red. It’s not halos and astral butterflies. It’s not a third eye—it’s not even the first two. It’s trauma pinned to the skin. It’s an earworm eulogy, it’s carpel tunnel on a Tuesday, it’s the anxious smile of an out-of-business baker. An empty wagon before the chicken coop, a decommissioned fire truck.

Yesterday I poisoned myself with knowing. Yesterday I was a child who hummed. Yesterday I built parapets not knowing weaponry. Today I see the pierce of history, the long arrow of murder, and I cannot bring myself to check the balance of my savings account or hope for a promotion or answer the phone that rings for no one in particular.

If a birch rejoins the peat, will you know the bark that came before?

Curse comes in every form.

88 mph

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