The Crevasse
Coming home and going home
A man in a space the size of an envelope. Face pressed against stone slab rock, drool streaked across gray blue making fingers of streaky dark. For a moment. The sun traverses the mountain, from driver side to passenger side says his mama, if we just keep on driving, driving like we never gonna stop, we can ‘scape that mess behind us, apple orchard smile blossoming out swollen lips and purple eyes.
He grunts, tries to shift but there’s nowhere to go. Caught in the jaws of the crevasse like a sandwich press. Gravity usurps him slowly down. Blows air out his mouth, inflates his cheeks, if he gives the situation too much thought he’ll panic, so he circles above it, keeps it on the periphery of his awareness. A pen’s nib in his mouth, the cold of its tip pressing against his tongue. Why he should think of this — maybe the stone wall maw reminds of childhood chalkboard which segues writing which leads to pens.
Huh-unnn. He grunts and looks above him. It was only minutes ago, he thinks, but he can’t remember how he got himself here. Did he fall? In what way did he fall to wind up in this ream-of-paper-tight crevasse with his feet down like a pencil diver? An important configuration, another important memory imported from beneath gray lobes. His legs are stuck but he can move one foot. He waggles it on the joint of his ankle. For a…
