Layover
Every star prickles in the throat. Cough and clear, the window seat menace keeps it closed. Opens a book instead. There are rumors of clouds in first class. Shuffling knees and the weight of expectation. Extending the neck to see the line and the shape of stillness which molds itself to every crevice, imperceptible until someone moves. Every onion hates crying and insists upon it. Children will risk their mother’s ornamental embarrassment for the blue honesty of tears. These contradictions are reminders of the liminal, of the destination before it makes itself known. There is no suspense without anticipation. Without mystery. The gate holds its breath, announces its becoming in neon lights and loudspeaker. Every emotion should be stowed. The agricultural patchwork blurs when we reach elevation. Somewhere down there is our house. I am in the kitchen with tears and a knife. Dinner will be late.
September 2024
Catherine Garbinsky is a writer living in Knoxville, Tennessee. She is currently a PhD student at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville. Catherine has written two chapbooks: All Spells Are Strong Here (Ghost City Press) and Even Curses End (Animal Heart Press). Her work has been featured in Occulum Journal, Cream City Review, Coffin Bell Journal, Bustle, and elsewhere.
Art: Kelly Cressio-Moeller, Childhood Faultlines. Mixed media: acrylic, ink, paper, mica flakes on basswood panel, 2023.