somewhere our bodies went
We got tangled bad. Years later I am reading about quantum entanglement and you are tapping my fingers down on the keys, a fairy-hand for a tiny hammer chiseling an unmarked grave.
The grave is unmarked and it is empty. The grave has been dug for two and its area is greater than the distance between a body and its soul. The grave is not ready to know, and we have yet to know, the gravity of the Earth collapsing.
Lately I have questioned the position of your body.
Examining mine: here. Earth-bound. The thrust of my hips considerably stronger than when. The arch of my back more sinuous than that time.
Examining yours: a ghost. More fairy images flitting through the bayou. St. Elmo’s fire searching for something beneath the dense undergrowth. Your voice louder than ever, as if sent through a black hole into the dimension closest to my ear. It is disquieting, to hear the past rushing to meet you before you can actually see it—a ghost train introduced by a banshee wail, here to collect dark matter, its strange source of coal.
I do not believe in death. Death is for people who have never fallen in love, which is no one.
I am tired of this talk of ghosts. It is not fitting.
PHILLIP SPOTSWOOD was born in Alabama into a Catholic family and turned out queer. He graduated from the University of Alabama with a degree in English and Creative Writing, and currently lives in Louisiana. He is addicted to running in the dark. Recently he discovered that he shares his birthday with the formation of the polar vortex. He is in a committed relationship with the last scientist.