My mother is sleeping. I turn off the late-night game show and kiss her on the forehead. I wish she would kiss me goodnight sometimes, or at least cook with me, or at least talk with me about the world—how it all falls apart and scatters and collapses inside of you at the same time.
A FALCON RIPS ORION FROM THE SKY BY ASHLEY INGUANTA 4THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 37
Eric, my wonder boy, drives away. I watch from the front porch, an earth-covered chicory bouquet in my hands. He picked the chicory for me, stuffed the desert-sand inside their white-petal clusters, placed them in my hands, then left.
The car tail lights swarm like fire-spirits in the dark. Air nymphs play wind chimes in the Yucca Valley dusk. A falcon rips Orion from the sky. The falcon glides west, blood on its talons, gripping the hunter’s muscle. The hunter streaking the rich indigo sky with its bright, silver body, bits of berry-blood swirling into the design.
I stand in front of my childhood home. I’m almost eighteen, almos…