Making Waves
This is the only wave, breaking with the blood and all its substantive nutrients, its calcium deposits and the flecks of oxygen and iron together racing past purple to black, drying beneath the skin, the split open heart of the knuckle, like the faces of wood that you can peel away from one another. It’s terror that you can swallow up hoping it’ll choke down easily enough.
It’ll be forward and together until it strikes the wall to hand itself out as flyers on the street, it separates so easily you’d never even know one side was not near the other anymore. The pain left you and there was only the absoluteness of clenching your fist that helped you feel the pressure inside where all of it was just waiting, storing itself up until you decided to test it out and see if the whole system worked.
You curl up your fist in front of a smooth concrete wall, or brick since their roughness does feel that much better. You let it fly, without pistoning, without that posturing cock of the arm, just the snap back you should be striving for beyond the surface. You let it run, a bull out of the gates speeding with that willpower to bring your world of flesh and bone through to the other side, or to feel the pieces of it separate and go off where ever they might, to leave you with that broken, silly wave.
William Owen writes novels, graphic novels, comic books, poetry, and most anything else with words, primarily in NYC, but really in just about anyplace a pen and some bits of paper might fit. He received an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College; his work has appeared in literary journals, anthologies, and online spaces, and his new webcomic, Chep Changer's Poor Impulse Control, will be coming shortly to chepchanger.blogspot.com. He has worked as an environmental activist, package handler, factory worker, groundskeeper, proofreader, editor, and currently produces e-books for Macmillan. He lives in Brooklyn.
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