My community is bolts and washers. Alloyed metal is the fusion of two, just like me, but I’m alone in this aisle. Plumbing is what we don’t want to see; we put it behind cupboards or in the ground, but the heart is dependent on pathways and valves. I could stay here for hours if only the men in those orange aprons would leave me alone. Love is geometry, yes, but I’m overwhelmed by the possibility of so many angles. Well, not overwhelmed— I see the extrapolations, lines and their intersections, the nature of two bodies who long for each other, who would make sense together if only their will was applied. But “will” is a curious afternoon. People misunderstand. Even now I’m writing you a letter in my mind. I’m talking with my mouth shut, holding a vice, the way responsible people do. Can you see the invisible structures? Viaducts and flyovers— I’ve built them all along. If I can’t touch the hair behind your ear, I’ll press this cold surface. The floor in winter is no sacred place. It’s the reduction of a bed, the vigil of the impatient mind, forever charged and allusive. Nobody can hear me. Maybe they think I’m lost. After all, I’m a woman standing in one place.
Laton Carter’s writing appears or is forthcoming in Atticus Review, The Boiler, Indiana Review, The MacGuffin, Split Lip Magazine, The Wigleaf Top 50, and ZYZZYVA. Carter works in a middle school in Western Oregon.
Featured Artwork:
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Amanda Yskamp is a writer and a collagist. Her artwork has appeared in Black Rabbit, Riddled with Arrows, and Stoneboat. She lives on the 10-year flood plain of the Russian River, teaches writing from her online classroom, and serves as a librarian at the local elementary school.