by Reese Sterling Alexander
The plane falls on my bedroom while I’m sleep-walking. I wake up at the golf course. I wake up in the middle of the road. In a beautiful place where the title card is shown. Now, I’m in class. Now, I’m watching a portal on the theater screen. Now, Grandma Death whispers something to me. She says every living creature dies alone. Even the hero. Her mailbox remains empty. I ask her for the answers but they’re always the same. Now, I’m not supposed to tell anyone what nobody knows. The truth is I don’t think the world is coming to an end. They put on videos of our worst fears, asking us to control them. Frank tells me don’t be afraid. I can’t be afraid of something I already know the ending to. They call it the director's cut, they call it my destiny. My hand is heavy while carrying this axe. I tell everyone, I’m so over all of that. I don’t burn down houses anymore. I don’t sleep-walk. I paint everything I see. I write out nothing. I laugh in bed when everything is done; right before it starts again.
Reese Sterling Alexander is a poet and, this week, non-smoker.
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