Bite and tear,tears and bytes and the constellation Sagittarius. Will I ever be okay, like the fat children tumbling down the Sunday School Steps? The funeral limo smelled of peanuts, and I was empty as a comet — ice and light and empty black hurled tennis-ball across the net. The edge of a floppy disk in my bag, I stole it from Enrichment even though my uncle’s house has no computer. Just to hold it, just to slide it between my hands and think about the little packets of numbers, the glowing green lines of longitude — the way they formed lego-stout another planet.
Everything’s all mixed up. Everything happens at the same time.
Star Prophet flopped down on a dune, and skimmed a coke can across a few waves. He was pretty good. My uncle’s fist slams into my face again and again, and I’m full of waves, salt water in a ziplock bag full, fuller — then burst. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. The boy, and his fingers and the moons, and the rocket ships burning , solid state fuel of pain. My uncle’s hand on my chest, and I’m glad I’m still flat but it won’t be long. Star Prophet’s red goggles are fogged up , and he pushes them up his face and leans in close and plants a graveside kiss on my brow.
“It’s all still out there. Waiting for you. For all of us. It was promised.” There’s snot on his nose, it’s November, white star peeling on his head like a crown of lilies. “Don’t forget.”
“Don’t forget the Cheetos.”