The Blind Ambition of Mannequins
My wife died under mysterious circumstances. Which is not to say that I never loved her or that I never admired Spanish bluebells, Valencia roses, from a distance. It’s just that I loved her with a heavy complex. When I sleep I dream of still water underground, reflecting the eyes of stones.
Perhaps you know this.
I passed by you each day. You, posing in the dress shop window on Main Street. Each time your hands seemed to rise an inch higher. You leaned forward toward the glass and whispered, “Take me home. I will be your last wife.”
Or maybe my eyes twitched.
I once heard that flowers can grow underground and speak in deceptive ways. Our noon-day shadows can bend at impossible angles.
In bed, you are as hard as my inability to make candles, light wishes, and make them go away. I sob against the silicone of your breast, this bruit of silence. The curve of our moulds—indistinguishable. I am slowly turning inorganic.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Elimae, Smokelong Quarterly, This Zine Will Change Your Life, Blaze Vox, Matchbook, and elsewhere. He loves 50s Sci-Fi movies, manga comics, and pre-punk garage bands of the 60s.