February 11th, 2007
I’m on a plane and I’ve forgotten to bring the other half of my bedframe.
Onboard I stash the battered longbox containing the bed’s aluminum rods and wonder when we’re going to take off.
I fall asleep by the window, the sun shining on my face and arm, I wake up stabbed with the realization that I’ve developed cancer while I’ve been asleep. I now have a thick and pus-encrusted rash all over my neck and chest, and in the bathroom I see that my neck has sprouted a boil as firm and round as a puffball mushroom, I pinch it with my long nails and watch a bead of blood well up from the puncture, I look inside the cavity and see the blood writhe as I tremble, the boil full like a teacup.
I lean over the sink and look down in the drain while I feel the fleshcup empty, the blood pouring thick and dark, the sensation’s ticklish, when I look up in the mirror, the left side of my mouth has twisted permanently somehow from the ruin on my neck, some subcutaneous implosion like a sinkhole, some underground collapse, I close my eyes, when I open them my neck sparkles like a rare treasure with its sugary crust of crystalline pus.
I smile. I doesn’t look so bad, after all. In a certain light — if I turn my head a certain way — just so — I give myself a wink and walk back to my seat.
C. Way/ SnailCrow.com © 2006