An old man corpuscle, flat and screaming.  He knows what’s up. What’s going on.  Even his attachments cling tidy, so concerned and loving.  His grandchildren hold hands in a circle around him, chanting, “Change! Change! Change!” not understanding why, not understanding the anger seeping out from the spaces between their tiny little teeths.  They just know it feels good, like how their stuffy feels good when they rub against it after bath time, before mommy comes in for that final goodnight.

The corpuscle who is an old man weeps silently.  Guess how tired he is.  His bones spill flaccid underneath him creating a crystalline pool that looks like a mirror of tears.  The grandchildren have stopped their chanting, tired, hungry for McNuggets or sugared cereal, ready for the beds they fight entry to every night.  Corpuscle wants what they want.  Corpuscle is tired like how they are but more full of death.  He’s forgotten what a mother feels like and it stabs.

I will end this with the children or the old man. Which one is the greatest?  The children file out in a skinny row, chanting ended, wiping their eyes.  A mother’s voice sings out from a kitchen in a place where it feels warm like a sock around your frigid foot.  Her song calls so sweetly to each of the children and every one of them believes she is theirs.  The old man, corpuscle, takes his fist and smashes it into his thigh, over and over again.  He hears no mother’s voice. He is alone.


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