claire wahmanholm


With our heads loose and wobbling, we did strange things. Someone climbed to the top of a tower and flew off. Someone chewed through a pound of shredded cans. I stuck both my hands inside a rattlesnake den and clapped until my arms broke off at the elbows. They thrashed rustedly at my feet, filling the clouds with creaking. In a nearby field I found a body with all its parts still intact and dragged it back to the factory. I passed someone filling their boots with snow. I passed someone burning a pile of their own hair. On their bare head I could see the bolts, the blue maps someone had drawn in crayon: dig here and don’t dig here. I could see the head tilting on its axis, the hair-smoke scudding around it. I continued dragging my body toward the factory. I attached my new arms as best I could. Everything I held was a little crooked. My face wobbled like an unshelled egg. When I reached down to touch the earth it shied away and fled.