The Choice Between Someone & Somebody

Kristin Abraham

It took him 30 years to vanish into thin air, that place under the beef of his breath.  First, the God-fearing eyes, thumb like a bolt.  Then, his scars, a cow-skull pelvis, the bone-space between his legs.  The ads the town placed just a few years in were for a proper rogue.  “Ours is torn and faded.”  “Like harp strings, the thin spots in cloth.”  “The wind here is full of wind, and he’s becoming like air, not air, air.”  They were right:  Each day more like a corn-husk mattress rustle, the space of a tumbleweed.  Then that part of him that was wizened, mule-faced, went like the Rapture, holy sweat-and-shake.  He left a small warm spot in his stead.


 


 

 

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