10: February 2016 #09 - Boundary Effect
Authored by Susan Konz
by Susan Konz
There’s something in my periphery. Smoking on the stoop, my brother’s head spins somehow completely around, baseball cap falling off in the severance. I’m sure, I see it clear as morning & don’t question, let the calm overtake me when this happens. I’ve cauled my fear so I don’t jump, so nothing surprises me, so I don’t even bend to retrieve the hat because look! Look at me! I’m safe, finally, after all that kvetching & it’s no big deal anymore. I can move beyond these bad dreams that spin around, surface and undertow me, can hold my tongue before the scream to see if his head sits right when he lights his next cigarette, wait to decide it’s nothing even when I recognize these things dying around me – a spastic moth in the forty watt porch light, a rabbit three counties north, mid-lane who won’t even blink as I’m coming straight toward him and why won’t he move if he’s more animal than me, more programmed to exist. Maybe I’m the one frozen, scared, half- way to meet my family where highways have no streetlights. I tried, but couldn’t swerve fast enough. I’m left angry to be the one to have to remember the thump-thump the tires made and how somehow I’m allowed to, made to keep driving while he got to blink and cease, no kvetching about fairness, about not sleeping, eyes & cheeks flying off into corners, half in dreams, not meaning it, never meaning it, but cagey from the start it keeps giving me like the flicker when walking into a room knowing I came with a purpose, but unable to recall it. My life beginning to become this moment, turning around and again in the kitchen, garage, closet, hallway, new to myself, my things, absent of all memory but one, and even then, only half fleshed out, something to be discerned about me, this somehow that I am bound to my surroundings, how I’m sure I can’t leave until I know what called me in.