SmokeLong Quarterly

We are going to wait for two strangers to scratch at our nighty-night windows. Wait for their white faces to show up in our dark rooms. Wait for them to poke their fingery eyes at us.

To repeat: Strangers will come and watch and poke—their eyes like salt, like fire. And there will be a knife behind the big one’s back when he knocks at the door, but we won’t see it. Won’t even know that it’s there.

But this fear is not a living thing, not a breathing thing. It is only us and these strangers who live and who breathe. That is it. That is all.

If you will, take your fingers and press them on the big one’s eyelids and watch for the lights all around us to change from green to gold. Watch the lights spin and twinkle and tickle.

Say to him:

Don’t make me crazy with your little face and eyes that press against my window. You with your knife and your shaky, shaky hands.

If you are going to kill me just do it now.

I am so tired of waiting.

And the knife will feel so cool, so fresh as you slip it in.