Weekly feature by: R. Loveeachother
Last night, I grated carrots.
This morning, I was walking to work.
Crowded in a plastic bag with a twisty-tie.
Suds strewn on a downtown window, by brown hands in a white jumpsuit, pulling the glass clean, in neat rows, with a wide rubber blade.
The bright earthen fingers dissolved into orange slivers, splinters.
The morning sun cracked ashen clouds, like pierced egg-yoke, pooling onto the street in puddles.
They fell fleshy into the bowl and clung to the minutes of my small apartment kitchen.
Now, my wrists are wrapped in metal.
I thought: the faster you shred, the more things scatter.
Two officers told me to stop.
I was trying to listen to a podcast called ‘Beyond Time.’
They told me to put my hands against the brick wall.
I couldn’t hear the narrator over the noise of the grating—something about particle physics.
Spread your legs, they ordered. Wider, they barked.
I didn’t have a plan for the salad.
The Judge says she’s disappointed.
The narrator is breaking up.
The court appointed attorney is looking into his phone.
I only got pieces of it.
I wear an orange jumpsuit.
Time splits. . . multiple universes. . . one where you chose vanilla, and the other . . . chocolate.
I had a zip of dope. They knew.
I picked up another orange universe and grated its parts against my metal.
I tell the truth.
It yielded, as it had to.
I see my mother, in her kitchen, praying.
But the narrator insists, theoretical infinity.
I see my mamma, at church, lifting prayers.
I turn the last carrot slowly, between fingers.
A zip of dope for all this shit.