LIMBO AS A HIKE ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Lucas Peel

at the end of the valley, turn left at the burning bush. continue on through the charred earth or ocean of glass, all needle and 40 oz. listen: it is not the wind, clattering like pill bottles or fistfuls of keys stumbling out the front door for what you remember as the last time. then, heaven parts like a mosaic, the pickled red sun smiles back through the wreckage. then, a way out. so i climb a ladder that is also a railroad and also a beanstalk and the boy who told me of its breath or spot in the imaginary sky. you, the boy. you, scattered ash in the mausoleum of my memory. rumor has it that at the top there is a pyre made entirely of boys. a thousand dead boys, a vast orchard of bloom, dandelions spilling themselves into the selfish breeze, taking flight in the hopes of finding a home in the potted chest of everyone they left behind. rumor has it that the boy is the rumor or the flame or jar of marbles sunk in an empty lake of stars. from up here, i can no longer hear you. or myself. so i turn back, watch the flowery mist billow like a song from the mountaintop. on the way out, i find a seed by the trailhead. i think i will keep it, for now.