Returning to the Introduction
by Emma Ramney
She shaves each side of head like a desert. I swear if I close my eyes it is five years in the past. But I can only travel for a second. Even the razor is quiet when I return. Stubble feels like sand, she says. Yes. My eyes closing, staying shut. Oh you beautiful girl. When was that—before the light bulb burned. Before the cactus died. Do you remember, her voice trembling. And she has parted the seas the wrong way, the wave left rising from the middle. If I pull her eyelids down with my finger, we will be there together, if I. How hot is it right now, my hand passing through what used to be. My mouth parched. And damn those eyes always opening.