The Loneliest Blue is the Reflection of the Sky
God is the expectations of our ancestors, and I come from a family with low expectations. Upstairs, the carpet is half-removed and folded over, and my blood from two decades ago is a dry splash in the corner. My father slowly paces in the kitchen. He picks up crumbs I can’t see and rants about mice. I ask him if his eyes are blue or green, and he says, “I don’t pay attention to that shit.” I remember putting pink barrettes in his curly mullet as a child. I probably knew his irises then, in the way I know the sunlight while actively avoiding looking at the sun. The walls of his house are quiet. I chew my water. I eat with the mouth of an unanswered question. I want to tell him I once thought I’d catch bubbles of silence in my mouth until life ended. That I was once washed with grief until I was clean as used soap. He tells me to I need to go to church. But my friend and I both read the Bible and The God Delusion together, and we came out dumber with each book. Now I only read poetry, and who knows how that is affecting my brain. But more importantly, who knows the burning last spatter of feces from birds that come barreling out of the sky when a father doesn’t respond to “I love you”? I take a bath and it feels like cold wind. I listen to the clouds, and the edges crisp like the ends of cigarettes. I have found the edges of my father’s voice. They hang like frayed strings longing for ties. I’ve almost found a way to harness the stringy clouds. I’ve almost found a way to strangle the sky.
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