Yesterday light cut my name into stone and reminded me of the pink beneath my eyelids. Quiet is hard to find in the melting: blessed with red candles and songs built from brick and clouds, my legs bend bone dry without cartilage and water. Yesterday the salt flattened my mouth; a fidget of flesh prickled we strangers of dust. The halo burned my tongue. I am still followed and can feel camera daggers, but their company is welcome because the grass is soft and thornless. In transit, I live in the moment when not trapped in my throat.
Bryan Edenfield was born in Arizona but has lived in Seattle since 2007. He was the founder and director of the small press and literary arts organization, Babel/Salvage. He hosted and curated the Glossophonic Showcase and the Ogopogo Performance Series. His writing has most recently been published in Construction Magazine, Meekling Review, Dryland, and Plinth. He is currently one of the Jack Straw Writers for 2018 and the host of the Hollow Earth Radio program, Glossophonics.