An Origin is a Point Among Other Coordinates by Marisa Lin
Like her, he yearned for a planet beyond this wasteland . . .
Recently Published
I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
Like her, he yearned for a planet beyond this wasteland . . .
We slow-danced as he hummed a Dylan tune, the one about having God on our side. Johnny’s body was soothing like a Sunday morning.
I fall behind to capture what remains of the sunlight.
I am eight again, alone with nobody but my father and a dinner's-worth of trout stiff-spined in the ice chest.
The monster could have sunk its teeth into the side of its husband’s skull, could have ripped his flesh from the bone, but it’s not a biter.