by a contributor
Today I’m on top of things. Usually I’m in the middle of it, hard objects whizzing at my head, or under it all like a turtle in a mudslide. But now I’m on top of things, so on top of things that an eerie green light pulses from my body & surrounds all the things I’m on top of. When I stride into my house my wife murmurs from the kitchen, My God, you’re on top of things, & sidles toward the knife block. At the top of the stairs I meet my son—mediocre student, athlete distinguished more by energy than skill. But here my boy fills the hall, striking the hard-thighed stance of a man who’s just gotten on top of things. I throw open my arms in delight. A metallic object flashes in his hand. From the floor I regard him as one might a stele to a martyr of the nation. The light around his young body is almost blinding. Into the carpet I whisper, Way to go, son.
Mark Seidl loves New York’s Hudson Valley, where he lives and works as a special collections librarian, but each spring the scarcity of dogwood trees in the region saddens him. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Alice Blue Review, Birdfeast, NAP, and Thunderclap.