Close Encounter at Dance Party This close to the glass my auto-breath obscures everything but the slow burn in your eye. After years of genetic blueprint and buckets of bonsai-ed flank bits and rib-eye nuggets, have you lost all memory of how to kill? To dirty your paws and tear apart a braying throat? Tiger, kept fat by khaki-ed jailers, have your claws become dull or sharp or manicured? Disappointment murmured through the crowd as the booze swaddled among us moved on to the next dazzle display, something indoors out of the night’s frost quiver. It has been calculated that the chance of intelligent life emerging in the universe is 1 in 10^229. A probability so small randomness can’t explain why I’m here tonight asking a tiger about the soul. What are the odds I fall inside this enclosure and bleed for you? For a few Planck moments, I remember the taste of blood brining a rough rake tongue, and the urge to follow the music, my tin can anatomy hunkering for a drum
90 | PHOEBE 49.1
Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's 49.1 issue.