asphalt
- Oct 16, 2020
- 1 min read
by F.D. Hudson
if i were to say how it was, it would be like a cool bite of the asphalt as the moon collapses: that kind of hard-shelled feeling, after all the other words have failed you; a question pressing like a thumbtack on your tongue.
except all you can do is erect ladders to the fire, kicking tires until your toes bruise. even as the sky falls you’re there in the backyard, silently begging for a way out. and when it rains the asphalt shines like oil; you could almost say it glitters.
it’s the kind of pain that never waits: turning around to find yourself snug in a bear trap, your jeans saturated with blood. only now you’re face-down in no-man’s land, so bone-dead you think the world’s turned on its head.
when morning stumbles above you, yawning itself awake, the language on your skin is unreadable. as you flicker yourself to life, there’s a memory of a dream you once had: an unmarked grave in the asphalt, with fragments of the moon scattered around it.
F.D. Hudson is currently attending Swarthmore University. His work has appeared in Liminality Magazine, Fleas on the Dog, and Black Horse Review, among others. When he’s not reading, he’s usually playing with his 16-pound cat.
