Re
by J. K. Fowler
Break. Break bones, break asunder, break the boy’s legs so he may fit more tightly under your dinner table. Break bread.
Sight at the expense of hearing. Offer woven baskets of cracked glass eyes to Sharp-shinned hawks. Scrape the songbird from their talons, let them dig nails into shoulders and fly the boy away to an under over under, jump rope his body into the next. Let the boy weep. When the tears have dried, willow his bones from the flesh to form needles. From the scraps, stitch skin over skin over skin until eyeballs are birthed. And when the light shines over the boy’s newborn eyes, the pink light will remind him of softened womb memories. Maybe he will smile.
Note that a jarred heart when pickled remains in tact for decades. When the jar is eventually pried open, enough time will evaporate the formaldehyde and expose the heart to oxygen. This is when the heart will begin to disintegrate, fall into itself, putrefy. The boy will watch as a carousel of men carouse and loosen the lid. When the seal breaks and the heart is lifted from safety into open air by sausage fingers, even the Black vultures looking on will not feast. As heart plops to floor, Weaver birds will arrive from Africa, sweep heart into beak to carry a return to nest. As hearts go, Weaver birds are known for their parasitic nesting habits. This will comfort the boy. And this the beginning.
Years later, the boy’s arms will be bound behind his back, and he will come to understand the fear of Duct tape. He will note the coolness of the steel pipe that he is wrapped around, wish for waters to wash him westward to some distant land. There is no land of arrival. He will learn this. Sails will drive masts into his chest, the main head will unfurl and fill. Movement eastward will begin with a crawl, as men stand atop his frail hull as slave ship captains, leaving treadmarks along his tiny ribs.
When the boy is beached upon sand banks, the American crows will land. This is arrival. May the crows rip precious, claw forgiveness. May their beaks carry his pieces upward and toward ressemblance, toward reclamation. They will congregate in cornfields. Only some ears will survive the black-winged onslaught. If the boy has ears left to hear, remind him of the distant whispers amongst the stalks. And when diesel-engine blades approach, doves will scatter. The squeaking of unoiled dove-wing hinges will be the last sound that the boy will hear. The time for others to feel remorse will soon follow.
Sight at the expense of hearing. Offer woven baskets of cracked glass eyes to Sharp-shinned hawks. Scrape the songbird from their talons, let them dig nails into shoulders and fly the boy away to an under over under, jump rope his body into the next. Let the boy weep. When the tears have dried, willow his bones from the flesh to form needles. From the scraps, stitch skin over skin over skin until eyeballs are birthed. And when the light shines over the boy’s newborn eyes, the pink light will remind him of softened womb memories. Maybe he will smile.
Note that a jarred heart when pickled remains in tact for decades. When the jar is eventually pried open, enough time will evaporate the formaldehyde and expose the heart to oxygen. This is when the heart will begin to disintegrate, fall into itself, putrefy. The boy will watch as a carousel of men carouse and loosen the lid. When the seal breaks and the heart is lifted from safety into open air by sausage fingers, even the Black vultures looking on will not feast. As heart plops to floor, Weaver birds will arrive from Africa, sweep heart into beak to carry a return to nest. As hearts go, Weaver birds are known for their parasitic nesting habits. This will comfort the boy. And this the beginning.
Years later, the boy’s arms will be bound behind his back, and he will come to understand the fear of Duct tape. He will note the coolness of the steel pipe that he is wrapped around, wish for waters to wash him westward to some distant land. There is no land of arrival. He will learn this. Sails will drive masts into his chest, the main head will unfurl and fill. Movement eastward will begin with a crawl, as men stand atop his frail hull as slave ship captains, leaving treadmarks along his tiny ribs.
When the boy is beached upon sand banks, the American crows will land. This is arrival. May the crows rip precious, claw forgiveness. May their beaks carry his pieces upward and toward ressemblance, toward reclamation. They will congregate in cornfields. Only some ears will survive the black-winged onslaught. If the boy has ears left to hear, remind him of the distant whispers amongst the stalks. And when diesel-engine blades approach, doves will scatter. The squeaking of unoiled dove-wing hinges will be the last sound that the boy will hear. The time for others to feel remorse will soon follow.