Voices on the Wind Voices from Home
The Corners by Ken Boe He opened his black leather bag of guns, blue metal poking up in moonlight like a rushing bloom, he misunderstood, and like a trap door, nostalgia jumped retrograde to the old back house, or perhaps the paranoia of nostalgia, the places better off neglected. In the center was a Franklin Stove where mice smelled through trajectory the mediation of hidden things; chewing on star seed, and paper wrappers, but never a message of day light, always a dark astronomy through cracks in the faded wallpaper of some fantasy-of-innocence design cutting through plaster to the wood lathing, a magic lantern for the quiet dwellers who looked out, generation after generation, to the people who gnaw on secrets. He rubbed his hand against the paper label of his box of hollow-point bullets. It reminded him of the old wallpaper, her crying muffled from the other side. Blue and yellow flowers, cut at the stem, peeling at the seam at the corners that held together the four walls, the roof, and a cellar for curing wild meats. He leaned his body into her memory pumping the covetous dereliction, forcing images up the stairs of a lie, his con the evidence of a darker truth. And now he looked down from up on the hill, hidden by a tangle of juniper tree shadows: indiscernible branches of separation.