Sometimes We Die a Few Times and That’s Alright
Mackenzie Hyatt
I haven’t died before unless you count the times I’ve wanted to and then, theoretically, there exist alternate versions of me, who, like moles, live blind, confined to earth. A man on a bus told everyone that he’d died six times, two-thirds of a cat, all on one ambulance ride. Legally dead, like there’s a license for it. I wanted to ask if he’d seen a god there or if he even got past Processing, if there’s a chatty secretary and if she’s pretty. I wanted to ask him, on his next trip, if he could check if it’s too late for me to change my mind. Sometimes I wonder if what I’m doing is right. If poking at shattered skulls is morally justifiable. Then I wonder if the skull could be my ancient cousin. Will I strike a kinsman with my trowel blade? A part of me, some twisted, wishful part of me, hopes that I get buried carefully enough and that all of our records are lost enough that my skull or a single rib will be an exciting find to some future me and I’ll get free museum admission for life. 106 Etchings
