free ride forever?”
his laugh is the cranking of a windup toy.
“fine,” leila says. her voice is clipped. “fair enough.
but:
Henry is as close to god
as anything i’ve ever known.
He is.
so:
it’s not about money;
it’s about the message.
the word.
the truth.”
“it’s about making all those people take notice,” junior says, his windup-toy laugh turning over in the midnight air.
it sounds like maybe he is agreeing with leila.
but maybe he is saying something else entirely.
something more.
something different.
something dangerous.
maybe it is—
money.
maybe it is,
truly,
music.
or maybe it is,
even—
still,
yet,
love.
pure
and
bright:
love.
maybe.
but whatever
the cause
the catalyst
Henry cannot be
cast
aside.
whispers leak and trickle,
creeping toward me.
there is a tidal shift
slowly gathering force.
swift, almost imperceptible.
it rides,
it weaves,
it stings and burrows,
salt water, seaweed,
and other sunken things.
i hear the rush, the shower
within the parentheses—
the negative spaces—
of junior’s and leila’s
whispers.
there is no such thing as
free love.
there is no denying Henry.
and when we gather force,
knit together—
fuse—
there will be no
ignoring
our
family.
helter-skelter
a week passes.
another dust storm, another campfire.
whispers, creeping.
engines kicking on,
turning over.
arrivals, exchanges
secrets and dealings and fury and tides.
but still
no
important
visitor.
another night with my sisters,
my father,
my family:
more smoke,
more medicine.
more chemical summoning
of the high tide.
Henry exhales slowly, leans forward.
presses His palms firmly to His knees.
it is time for more truth,
fireside wisdom.
time for us all—
for our family—
to
arise.
Henry has something to say.
a message to deliver.
some truth,
love,
wisdom
to impart.
He starts:
“the man has tried
to keep me
down.”
flame leaps,
laps at his ankles;
smoke drapes,
snakes,
swoons.
swaddles him in murky gray
haze.
a veil has dropped;
i see the outside world in fragments,
through spools of cotton batting
that muffle,
that cloak.
the man?
no, it’s more than that.
more than the one visitor.
it is all of the
blank,
nameless,
faceless
men.
all of the uncles
creeping,
lurking
late at night.
filling up any open spaces
they can
find.
i hear Henry’s message.
His word.
His truth.
i can relate.
men are:
sharp teeth,
slick canines.
bloodlust,
anger,
hunger.
empty spaces.
hollowed-out husks.
i can relate. i have been there.
i have been
.
but.
Henry was meant to erase all of that.
the premise of Henry—
His promise, His power—
was to wave a wand,
to wiggle a finger, to grant a wish
and make the before vanish,
dissolve,
desist.
to make me whole again.
instead,
there is the creep,
the seeping sting
of salt water
droplets, like tears,
clinging to the whispered words
passed between my family
in secret.
and the smoke
can only do
so much.
i breathe in what i can.
swallow it down
like a
whisper.
Henry catches my eye.
notes the heavy rise of my chest.
sees me.
sees through me.
knows .
everything.
He can taste the doubt i carry,
i think.
can cut through the cotton wool
to where
the worry
lives.
can sense my fear
of the building
undertow.
i breathe quickly, my heartbeat catching in my throat,
to think that Henry so easily reads every secret space of mine.
breathing brings the cloud-shifts back,
the lazy haze,
erases all traces of
.
drowns me.
again.
i think:
Henry, too—
Henry, Himself—
has been suppressed.
has been swallowed,
consumed,
devoured.
considered and rejected
by this so-called
.
this blank, important person
who is somehow more ,
somehow
his laugh is the cranking of a windup toy.
“fine,” leila says. her voice is clipped. “fair enough.
but:
Henry is as close to god
as anything i’ve ever known.
He is.
so:
it’s not about money;
it’s about the message.
the word.
the truth.”
“it’s about making all those people take notice,” junior says, his windup-toy laugh turning over in the midnight air.
it sounds like maybe he is agreeing with leila.
but maybe he is saying something else entirely.
something more.
something different.
something dangerous.
maybe it is—
money.
maybe it is,
truly,
music.
or maybe it is,
even—
still,
yet,
love.
pure
and
bright:
love.
maybe.
but whatever
the cause
the catalyst
Henry cannot be
cast
aside.
whispers leak and trickle,
creeping toward me.
there is a tidal shift
slowly gathering force.
swift, almost imperceptible.
it rides,
it weaves,
it stings and burrows,
salt water, seaweed,
and other sunken things.
i hear the rush, the shower
within the parentheses—
the negative spaces—
of junior’s and leila’s
whispers.
there is no such thing as
free love.
there is no denying Henry.
and when we gather force,
knit together—
fuse—
there will be no
ignoring
our
family.
helter-skelter
a week passes.
another dust storm, another campfire.
whispers, creeping.
engines kicking on,
turning over.
arrivals, exchanges
secrets and dealings and fury and tides.
but still
no
important
visitor.
another night with my sisters,
my father,
my family:
more smoke,
more medicine.
more chemical summoning
of the high tide.
Henry exhales slowly, leans forward.
presses His palms firmly to His knees.
it is time for more truth,
fireside wisdom.
time for us all—
for our family—
to
arise.
Henry has something to say.
a message to deliver.
some truth,
love,
wisdom
to impart.
He starts:
“the man has tried
to keep me
down.”
flame leaps,
laps at his ankles;
smoke drapes,
snakes,
swoons.
swaddles him in murky gray
haze.
a veil has dropped;
i see the outside world in fragments,
through spools of cotton batting
that muffle,
that cloak.
the man?
no, it’s more than that.
more than the one visitor.
it is all of the
blank,
nameless,
faceless
men.
all of the uncles
creeping,
lurking
late at night.
filling up any open spaces
they can
find.
i hear Henry’s message.
His word.
His truth.
i can relate.
men are:
sharp teeth,
slick canines.
bloodlust,
anger,
hunger.
empty spaces.
hollowed-out husks.
i can relate. i have been there.
i have been
but.
Henry was meant to erase all of that.
the premise of Henry—
His promise, His power—
was to wave a wand,
to wiggle a finger, to grant a wish
and make the before vanish,
dissolve,
desist.
to make me whole again.
instead,
there is the creep,
the seeping sting
of salt water
droplets, like tears,
clinging to the whispered words
passed between my family
in secret.
and the smoke
can only do
so much.
i breathe in what i can.
swallow it down
like a
whisper.
Henry catches my eye.
notes the heavy rise of my chest.
sees me.
sees through me.
knows .
everything.
He can taste the doubt i carry,
i think.
can cut through the cotton wool
to where
the worry
lives.
can sense my fear
of the building
undertow.
i breathe quickly, my heartbeat catching in my throat,
to think that Henry so easily reads every secret space of mine.
breathing brings the cloud-shifts back,
the lazy haze,
erases all traces of
drowns me.
again.
i think:
Henry, too—
Henry, Himself—
has been suppressed.
has been swallowed,
consumed,
devoured.
considered and rejected
by this so-called
this blank, important person
who is somehow more ,
somehow
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