Saoirse Ronan

She wishes she was Saoirse Ronan—or anyone other than herself: the night cleaner of two Wells Fargos and a dental office, the aimless, the dreamer, the lonely, again, on a Saturday afternoon. The $2 cinema in the dying mall is a graveyard. At the box office, she smiles with the smile of a beautiful skeleton. Her heart is shaped like an empty hand. The bored teen scans her ticket to Little Women or The French Dispatch. She is alone in the theater except for one man two rows ahead, slouching, feet up on the seat in front of him, head tilted like an art critic. They each pretend that they are truly alone. The previews come and go, the movie plays with the earnestness of the premier. Then—finally!—there she is—

                                                                          She gasps as Saoirse’s blue eyes fill the screen and the whole world like two baby stars. The only two stars in existence! The man’s head lifts and straightens. She imagines they are sucked into each of Saoirse’s pupils, moving like very fast piano music. She looks for him across the purple water of the universe and sees him, a radiant eel a million miles long. She knows now she is a resplendent quetzal, soaring beside him with her tremendous wingspan, turquoise tail undulating like an endless, ecstatic, operatic high note. And somewhere far away, the birds and the fish trade places, snow falls warm to the touch. The patriarchy crumbles. The winter flowers bloom and all the small animals reappear, foraging for food.

Riley Richards taught Creative Writing and Political Writing at Uzhhorod National University in Uzhhorod, Ukraine, and is currently a PhD student at Florida State University. Riley’s writing has been published or is forthcoming in Fugue, The Journal, After Happy Hour Review, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere.

A Song for Riley