NOVEMBER 2009

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The Epilogue of Number Twenty
By Sabrina Stoessinger, Sep 18, 2009

An egg suffering a mortal wound. Forced apart and split, my intestines and brains and wings spill out and drop. I vomit something that could previously have been eggs, but is now quite unrecognizable. Still undigested it loops memories and bits of data and pieces of you. I continue this ritual until my throat is burned and scarred with thoughts. I regurgitate scraps again. They are your feet and the sound of your footsteps.

You acquired me in the southern hemisphere and hitched a ride up north. We zigzagged across latitudes and ruins and clouds until absorbed by the shadow of the mountain that now bears your face. Cheating laws and gravity and other ills you grasped my hand and I squeezed back. I should have spent my wishes more wisely and instead requested amnesty.

There is a comfort, though, in abstract dreams and sensory phenomena. No curse of finality or allocated sadness, just the possibility you will serenade me once more. My bones attempted to pursue you, in that familiar headstrong way, but your laugh faded off and I have lost the path. And so we lie, lodged between two planes, awaiting the salvation of earthly divinities and other worthy creatures.