By Molly Knox
I tend to envision a circle. Whole, complete and healed. A unit, itself followed in and by itself, tail ended and smug in its smoothness. Too many things in nature (the world) are round. Ovular or circular anomalies which creep. No. Roll up on you? I’ve read flowers are essentially comprised of four concentric rings. They paint a titular picture of a burning atom at the bottom of your garden. Hidden yet thriving. I often think of track tires and cartwheeling, certain windows. Windows on drowning submarines. Windows on spaceships. In cartoons at least. Holes. Most planets. This ugly, fabulous planet. Most moons. Our moon. Black holes in the quiet corners of distant galaxies that squint at splinter particles on picket signs gripped tightly- afraid. Dots beside crotchets that knock off beats. Colons. The way children draw eyeballs, heads, hands. Half a sun in the corner of a page. Fingerprints left on crisp packets, tucked cheekily in planked picnic benches. Years stolen by the secret tree that built the pieces of your wooden toy train set, broken as tracks diverge over carpet bumps like hills in some coastal town, further and safer than here. The way words don’t come out when they should. The way they do laps on tongues and between molars, finishing before they reach chapped lips.
The way adults sculpt truth, pick at it and leave that scraped knee to scab. Expect something sore to put itself together. Festering under the skin until infection protrudes the nearest circular pore, until invisible to the naked eye but touchingly ached. Perhaps a pin prick that’s rubbed with balls of salt. I think it will all end in a solar burst. Swallowing the prism poison in an apple seed. Circular destruction by means of circular damage. Circles control. Healing zigs. It zags. It darts back, clambers, collects, drags, constructs. Refracts. But it can’t be controlled.
But we dance through your potholes of the past, present.
Tomorrow’s tender midday rain, or the smile of acceptance we learn to rebuild. Healing. Being healed, is pride and process.
Illustration: Xiaoyao Yin