Beneath the Cherry Tree
The man you thought you knew
I killed Lloyd Poe, with a square shovel, in his backyard, beneath a cherry tree. After you’ve killed, it takes time to realize that you have, in fact, killed. There’s a moment of unitarian proclamation where the universe recalibrates, balancing leeward and windward emotions.
Particles coalesced. Sunlight and leaves and motes and shadow merged with yellow awareness, pink gloaming and brown-recluse jaundice.
The shovel lay on the ground. Had I put it there? Had I dropped it or set it? Or had it flung away from me during the final repetitive act of shooting comet motion. My falling-star shovel breaking skull.
My vision was a cluster of asteroids. I looked down and saw my earthquake chest heaving over the ground. The grass wasn’t real. It had never been real. Grass was a mat of rubber and plastic and I was a child manipulating a toy-set, and Lloyd was a doll. A doll with a bright red halo.
I frowned, disliking my work. It was sloppy, lacking in symmetry, and I found myself disappointed by the loud realization that I hadn’t enjoyed it. It wasn’t part of the plan. To not enjoy it. The plan was kill him. And enjoy killing him. I’d forgotten to enjoy it.
My eye twitched and my fingertips swam, nervously, in the palm of my hand while…
