Your girlfriend’s been in an accident, they said on the phone.
What’s left of the motorcycle is in pieces in the front yard. The fork bent in an S and the front wheel caved in.
MOTORCYCLE BY CHRISTOPHER HEFFERNAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 134
Your girlfriend’s been in an accident, they said on the phone.
What’s left of the motorcycle is in pieces in the front yard. The fork bent in an S and the front wheel caved in.
From the sidewalk to the door, the parts have been dropped in a way that makes them look like a sculpture—modern and too interesting to be understood.
The neighborhood kids throw rocks at our windows and curse. Such a marvel how the broken glass and swearing bring us back to the world of common and insignificant torture, a world so well understood by children.
It’s been weeks since you came in from having been strewn across the train tracks a half mile away. The rain. A car. The whisky island you refused to leave. The bourbon-soaked palm tree from under which you gave Laura and Billy the finger as they asked you if you were all right to ride.