By: Joel Chace

Her grandfather’s milkhouse. White:
the cold; those painted

concrete walls; what came
from his cows as

it swirls along silvery
troughs; his hair; their

breaths; air itself in
there, and in her

       mind.

The stone whizzes past
his head before he
realizes he’s dodged. And
a good thing, that.
He finds then holds

the rock, feels its
heft, its lethal jaggedness.
Behind the hedgerow of
boxwoods, he crouches. The
missile might have zipped

through from outer space
or from the past,
on an invisible white
line aimed directly at
him. He knows it

was fast pitched by
his older brother, on
those bushes’ opposite side;
in other words, on
that very same invisible

white line. He ought
to return it, in
kind. But he won’t.
That way, he’ll bind
his brother to him,

 in their game.    

After their trek, after
traversing the watercourse, they
sit in this theater,
looking about, taking in

an immense space: distant,
domed ceiling and, just
beneath, scalloping, scrolling carved
into dark, shiny wood.

Then they begin noticing
acquaintances, intimates. Quiet settling.
Contented yawning. Expecting house
lights to flicker, though

hoping against it. No
spectacle’s needed since they
now understand, full well:
they won’t recross that

          river.              

Tripper and trippee. Takes
two to tangle, although
only one ends up

on the cafeteria floor,
right cheek in mashed
potatoes, gravy, green peas.

Lying there, he longs
for that lost place
he’s never been. He

walks through the doorway
into radiance, stretches out
before the fireplace, shuts

his eyes. Somewhere behind,
gentle, avuncular laughter; and
that must be mother

joining in. Applause — sister
no doubt, has finished
her song. Finally, yes,

   he’s there.

###

Joel Chace has published work in print and electronic magazines such as  Lana Turner, Golden Handcuffs Review, New American Writing, and The Brooklyn Rail. Underrated Provinces is recently out from MadHat Books, and Bone Chapel is coming out soon from Chax.