144
AROUND HERE
Joey Gotchnik
Inspired by Lift, Rhonda Willers “Time? What is time? We don’t have that around here,” she says. But how then, I thought, can I compare yourself to me? No number to make us seem similar, no skin wrinkle, hair color, or light amid your eyes. The balance of unbalanced strings lapping against bright plywood, yellow coated and a screw too short. I’ve never felt this old before. I’ve never felt this young inside the box when I walk with an uneven bolo tie perfectly taut. “Nail me down, I bet you can’t,” she says. You’ll have to get to know me better than that.” At a meal of some sorts, the eggshells stack. Never in the same way, the same routine, impossible. Strike—like lightning— never twice in the same place. Hammer and nail if I must. I know, this time they’ll eventually turn to rust. Screw the other side, this time—the balance beautifully becomes what hangs on and what turns to dust, dirt. Then that girl. Fantastically swaying in the midnight sun, completely undone unattached from the time around here.
