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Jordan Bonner GETTING CAUGHT In the morning chill, Eliot’s chest is burning. His lips move and his eyebrows clench. He is defending himself in his dreams. I let him mumble through it, pressing the bone that runs down his chest with my thumb. It’s early. I rest my throbbing head of my crumpled sweater. The light is not yet warm and fog comes out of my mouth. The sleeping bag smells like bodies and socks and I have been holding in piss for longer than I can remember. The sunrise is not colorful or magnificent. Straight pins of light escape the mountains and the glow is raw and white. It is clean. Redneck radio songs have stopped playing in my head over and over like an ache. I shake Eliot as gently as I can. “Wake up. It’s beautiful outside.” He wakes immediately with a gasp. The cold enters him. His eyes are wide open, as if he is afraid to blink. A rabbit darts too quickly through the grass. “What time is it?” he asks. “I don’t want to know.” “We should go. Someone is going to find us.” “Shut up. There’s no one. “ He rolls over to look me in the eye. He is still naked from a night of awkward touching and wordless anxiety. I see that he is shivering madly, but dares not put his clothes back on. He fears implication. Any eyes but mine could make him skip a heartbeat. The last thing I want to do is put my coat on and walk down that hill. I don’t want to sit in a car and hear the context of the over-lording radio. I don’t want to float down the highway to Show Low, where there is nothing 62

2009-10 Parallax  
2009-10 Parallax  

Idyllwild Arts Academy Student Literature/Art Magazine 2009-10

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