WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)
 

Meghan Privitello

What it Pertains To

If you can muster up enough light to be stunned by a black dress, I will buy you a flailing horse to show you what you are not. I will buy you enough darkness to convince people you are a two-dimensional hole which is just another hopeless circle. When the paper crane broke his wings, I challenged him to a race of failures. If I fail at being a memorable pattern, I win. If you fail at defining levity with the shape of your wings, I win. I could tell you that a smile is the product of a deranged architect, that our teeth are weapons a prisoner keeps under his mattress. I would by lying, and there are only hours left to be holy. At a certain age, our eyes become black crayons that scribble out photographs. We say, Oh I used to be in love with a slope, I was married to something in the foreground, I planted shapes and waited for them to darken. On horseback, I can see down women’s blouses; every chasm a place to die. The way a swan bends its neck to clean its breast begs for narration. The distance between myself and the anatomy of happiness is a plane ride with a failing engine. When we begin to understand the real meaning of falling, we can hold hands and describe the sea. We can watch wings admit they never really knew how to belong in the sky.

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