THE FIRE'S AFTERMATHby J. Scott Brownlee Something living was here. Now it's ash. It's nothing: epileptic shock of the visible field. I hate to say I don't believe—but in this place, I don't. Looking up is an exercise in faith's futility. The stars aren't proof of anything. What could ever reach them? They are fading like me—gone like me— disappearing the same way I am. I cannot tell you why, and I do not want to. I refuse to do so on the basis of this excuse, which I hold to: It was never starlight I fell in love with, but the emptiness behind it—all that dark like the black diamondback I found curled at my feet, petrified in an S signifying nothing—or, perhaps, everything. It seemed left there by someone or something—I still can't explain it— like me. But not me. But not me. |