by Brian Clifton
| My friends stand around a baseball diamond. On the pitcher’s mound, a pink flap inflates itself into my husband’s body. They discuss all the reasons this might be happening. The sunlight snakes through the darkness pooling at our ankles. The dusk comes out of the ground and shrouds his inflating body. Someone sighs. The gnats or maybe the wind through the outfield. When we can no longer see the body, the fireflies start their thousand silent explosions. We think we hear a pop—a radio’s static, its tubes. |