Illustration by Ishaan Barrett
Content warnings: death, blood
To write down your dreams,
to translate them from mind to paper
is to steal
and I am a dream thief
I.
Fresh, drenched bodies
scattered among the living
on a long flatbed truck
extending beyond the honeyed Pennsylvanian hills
Some kind of mass drowning accident
and yet,
the silent are the dead:
an old man with a bloody nose
dims next to distant carnival rides
a young girl—blonde, hopeful—five miles from home
and I know she will never get there
You call me on my hot pink landline,
saying: I knew you’d want to hear this story
and I am the Ferris wheel
I am the hills
I am the burning, moldy lungs
and the fresh, drenched bodies will always leave a stain
II.
In late September my dead stepgrandfather but not by marriage though closer to me than my blood-related grandfather—did you know that the Merriam-Webster dictionary doesn’t have an entry for stepgrandfather?—is in front of me in a blue hospital gown in a blue hospital bed with cold, blue hands which caress my own he asks me to get him something but I'm having trouble hearing him “Sorry, what are you saying?” All smiles his touch turns coarse I smile back I’m holding on for dear life or dear death perhaps he doesn’t repeat himself again but I am more willing than someone who is willing less “Sorry, one more time?” His request slips with him he is turning to tiny grains of sand my hand is becoming dry and ashy this is ash not sand isn’t it “Do you need something still?” I’m talking to the black my grandmother moves cross-country and I remember that I forgot to say goodbye to him because I didn’t know that he was really dying but do you think he’ll forgive me for forgetting or for laughing during his wake because I didn’t know what else to do with my mouth?
III.
I sip into my whisky glass filled with Diet Coke
in the bathroom of a fancy Polish restaurant
and I laugh at my ugly twin in the mirror
it’s 2007 and a tornado has just hit Enterprise, Alabama
I’m not supposed to be here
my teeth are not supposed to sink into this soft, fleshy glass,
coating my tongue with sweet shards
but I am here, lone and dry-mouthed
500 miles away, wind speeds reach 170 miles per hour
Two women enter suddenly,
clad in flamingo feathers and mollusk shells
mumbling wrkótce, wrkótce
and I notice the pulsing blue light of the walls
in the next 30 minutes, nine lives will be erased by hot air and debris
The strangers’ slender fingers reach for my mouth,
harvesting my soda-tinted splinters
to carve, silently, into their bare earlobes
but when their red begins to drip,
there is nowhere for it to fall
in two days, President George W. Bush will view the resulting debris in a Marine Corps aircraft
I wonder if tornadoes know the truth of their destructive nature,
like how I wonder if I knew the truth of mine
when I was seven and knocked out my brother’s friend’s tooth with a plastic lightsaber
when stripped, am I any different from a temperamental high-speed air column?
I am now floating, alone again
four hundred and sixty meters stretch out before me
about half a mile below my feet, sweet Southern grass sighs
and a single pink feather explores its new surroundings like a hound
I serve death and obliteration and owe the city of Enterprise, Alabama $307 million
Natalie (she/her) is a sophomore at Barnard studying English and French. She’s from Long Island and can usually be found among the trees in Riverside Park, listening to music. You can find her on Instagram @nataliedifusco.