Afterwards, I’ll make the call and wait for them to take his body, with flashing lights and bold siren song.
Later I shall place one plate out for supper and mix taro with maize—something I’ve not done—and watch ochre-colored butter run down the patterned rivers of my best blue willow china.
This evening I’ll lay my head upon his pillow, before his scent fades.
Tomorrow I will wake from a dream, knowing I can only be with him there, and face the nightmare of daylight without him.
I’ll brace myself for solitary confinement and I shall welcome fugues, where fractured reveries build into a crescendo of voices inside my head.
—Chris Drew resides between the Olympic Rain Forest and the Cascade mountain range, also using the Puget Sound as inspiration to write about causes, with a bent towards magical realism.