Weekly feature by: Thomas Rocha

You are not small. You stretch across the known and
unknown universe. Stars engulfed in your every breath.
World’s ending by the onerous blink of your infinite eyes.
You wonder about morality and right, while the
populations of planets plea for you to be still. What’s right
is right, what’s wrong is wrong, just don’t kill us all. Not
until my son has grown, not until I’ve touched the face of
my grandchild again, not until I’ve finally fucked someone,
anyone, just let me live a little bit longer. I know you don’t
know me, but you’ve killed me so many times. I had a bowl
of rice this morning. The grains, so white they hurt, they
clumped there in my bowl. I sat staring at them, the first
thing that I’d had to eat all day. The grains, little oblongs
pearls of sticky starch, so beautiful. I salted the bowl with
what little seasoning I could squeeze from my spent ducts.
The universe spun around me. You stared at me from
across the infinite space between us.

You are not quiet. Your whispers shake the foundations of
the stars. The galaxies shudder in their rush away from the
last time you spoke. You talk about your plans in secret,
and billions tremble under stretched out hands. I embraced
my wife this morning, and I couldn’t let her go. We stood
there, with your whispers ringing in our ears, and the
vibrations shook us like rag doll caricatures of leaves. I
held her, and she went to work. She held me, and I went to
the grocery store. Across the divide, our arms stretched,
boneless. Desperate. The spiral arms of the milky way
entwined themselves with ours. You spoke to me as though
I were a child.

You do not smell sweet. The retching masses gather in your cathedrals. They lean in close to smell each other, and only smell you, and think that they must all smell the same. The bloodhounds wander in the fields and forests, looking for the murderers that have disappeared into your miasma. I gathered all the wildflowers I could this day. Baskets and bushels of flowers shrugged at my demands for something, anything, to fill my nostrils but you. I ground them with my pestle: chlorophyll, damascenone, myrcene, ocimenol. I packed them into my nostrils, shoved them into my sinuses, wrapped bandages around my face to keep the smells
where I wanted them. The stars streamed past my windows.
You walked by me in multitudes, the breeze of your infinite
passing grinding your broken glass scent into my olfactory
nerves.


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