Execution of a Traitor Jace Elson
my executioner stands before me, sword in hand-- not raised, not yet-the flames warping the tarmac they stand on. heaven was not supposed to reach me, not in a dead-end town a dead-end state a runaway country. but my wife requested the apples in the plastic bags my trembling hands clutch. am I shaking from fear or age? my therapist would say that
“what is it like to be human?” they ask, sword in hand-- raised, now, shielding their face.
they’re the same thing. signs of survival. signs of strength.
this I know how to say.
(she tells me saving myself is enough. I don’t know how to say my name meant God’s wrath, once.)
“when I can’t sleep, I trace constellations over the freckles on my wife’s spine. I taste hymns in her-her too-strong coffee, her too-weak bones. she needs a cane, now, and she still believes I don’t remember you. not everything needs to be something god can understand.” my death stands before me, sword in hand-- swinging, now-and I keep my eyes open. Unbound | 33
