A tight collar, that would be best. Black leather, maybe some silver studs. If I could wrap it tightly around my mind with a very short leash, I might feel safer with him through each of these days. Try as I may, he slips my attempts to secure him, but I chase him nonetheless, corner him occasionally, make him sit. Sometimes, I catch him with a concept between his teeth tightly gripped. “Drop it, drop it, drrrroppp it,” I command. Every now and then he’ll listen and let it slide saliva saturated to the ground.
Writing
Cremation, India, 1983
Flesh to fire on Friday Freed those bones, that blood, to boil and burst
Merrin Wilding
May 2, 2021
