By Callie S Blackstone
The old hit heralds through the radio. It is old and frayed like any one of your beloved band shirts. You got most of them that day when you ran across ice to greet a musician that had come and gone long ago for many other people. His creations still ferried you through the world, rhythms and words so forgotten by others that you have become the keeper of a secret religion. People take in the old shirts when you wear them, stained pink with bleach, threads unravelling, knotted around your waist. You aren’t as small as you once were, but you still wear the band art across your chest as you heave on a gym machine to be thin again. Time is a funny thing; for you, the past is alive and singing and the girl you tasted ten years ago still lives on your lips. She was soft and floral and fragrant. You were thin in all the right places and so was she. She wore red headbands, expensive bags, and a set of broken teeth. You would have laid down at her feet. You would have let her walk across your back to keep her feet dry. You would have let her do anything to you, really. You were just clay for her to hold and to cup, for her to ultimately throw down on the floor and crush under her feet, shards to cut her feet on. And you would thank her for it.
Callie S. Blackstone writes both poetry and prose. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Freshwater Literary Journal, and others. She is a lifelong New Englander. She is lucky enough to wake up to the smell of saltwater and the call of seagulls everyday. You can find her online home at callieblackstone.wordpress.com