A Floor on the Storm


When the storm is over, she dreams of a boy nailed to the floor. Pitchfork and instep. She wakes to sirens, helicopters, all signs pointing to the apocalypse. Hell is not a forest fire, not ash sky or gypsy incense, tapered candles shoved in empty wine bottles and snapshots taped to mirrors. She thinks of a man from Mexico—no, a man whose family is from Mexico—and the way he says tequila. She thinks desert rain: something to wish for, cloud throb and thunder. She thinks lime wedge and salt shaker: something to rely on. Give her a kiss. A kiss will do. When the dream is over, she storms a boy to the floor—no, that’s not it. When the boy is over, she dreams a floor on the storm? Can’t keep it straight? Just remember: a boy, a dream, a floor, a storm. The order’s not important. Just remember, she wishes rain every day, collects umbrellas and leaves them all over the city. Rides buses from lake shore to suburb, just to pass the time. But this isn’t about the city. Except the sirens. And where she slept when she dreamed about the boy. There’s no blood where the pitchfork pierced his flesh, but the floor is seeping. It gurgles. She dreams it again and tries not to look.

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