Temple of Mystic Gestures

The sprawl of shadow across the slope reminds me to lie down in the road to be run over at your convenience. Thank you for the tire tracks across my midsection. They didn’t hurt, but the weight of your little electric car softened some of my favorite organs. Don’t worry: they’ll heal. And if they don’t, I’ll self-refer to the neighborhood temple of mystic gestures, where strange gods deploy giggles and sneers. 

Meanwhile, gunshots riot in the forest as deer hunters plug each other. They laugh and smash beer cans on their foreheads. The beer is still in the cans, and the hunters knock themselves senseless. What a violent world we’ve created—my dented torso, the concave foreheads and shot-riddled carcasses of hunters, the shadows warping the hillside. You reverse your little car and back right over me again, hoping I’ll burst like a piñata. I won’t. I’ve toughened in the sloped November light, my skin tanned and fine-grained enough to contain and waterproof me against even your slyest intentions.

William Doreski’s work has appeared in various journals and in several collections, most recently Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston.

A Song for William