The hair was a forest and the face beyond the cottage deep in it.
The hands were cracked and worn, the fingernails perfect.
The eyes darting back and forth, nailing each thing to the ground.
The feet were curved. Pointed at the end.
The toenails were blue.
The spine cut deep into the back.
Water would funnel through the basin of the spine and down into the drain.
The hip-bones were sharp.
Eyes wide apart.
Shoulder blades were two strange animals beneath the skin.
A scar on the knee.
Missing a tooth way in the back,
from a fight one time.
A yellow bicycle.
A copy of Bukowski.
And the like.
It all happened.
It twisted though my life and left a mess.
As the pieces were picked up,
“Did it happen?”
It happened to me.
Joe is a writer living in Los Angeles. His plays have appeared in Los Angeles, Portland, New York, Dallas and Chicago. He has also worked on several feature film projects that he will not name because he is too embarrassed to admit he worked on them. He also has a son named Dash and a fish named Billy Bob.