by Laura Heckel
stoned as skunks and bruisy-brained, we ran after some dude’s loose dog. the dog had bolted through three yards and taken off eastward, his tail-tip an iridescent fleck taunting us with boyish swing. it was the hour when everything operates on the curvature of a crescent moon, when roads slink out of view they cease to exist entirely, their crisp points painted thick as stiff bows of ships into sky. (our plane’s the only plane, fuckers.) it was the cold air that cleans your skin, it was the light that is lavender with yellow blush bottled in an orange bulb and hung from the porch of the townhall. yeah, hung. the townhall had a porch and the town had no zip code. purple and orange are the colors of haunting but also the colors of sherbet.
summoned by jingling and swallowed barks, we climbed the gate into the cemetery across the street, calling out the dog’s name. it felt right to shout and it felt right to be searching. while the dark divided us from our neighbors, the mute town beneath welcomed interruption. (they’ve heard every stray calling stray till we’re all kept or grow whole).
paddocked in iron is when we meditate on corpses, we wonder if they feel the impact of our boots on their faces and breasts and thighs, if there is a possibility that they are contrarily presssssing or gnawing at roots with their naked teeth to protect themselves from being impaled. i am made aware of lips and eyelids. he is made aware of lips and eyelids. i think a vain thought that jostles our wake.
then just as we’re about to climb out the other end towards the house, we came across this:
when we got back the dude was pissed we hadn’t found his dog. we said sorry, we got distracted, we found pie in the graveyard.
– Laura Heckel grew up in the great state of New Hampshire and now resides in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. She came out with her first zine, “girl world, vol. 1” earlier this year, and is currently working on volume 2. She also draws and acts in plays.