Axe

It was late. The lamplight gelled around you like pine sap thickening into amber. You were forgetting how to read, losing words in the exact reverse order of how you learned them decades before, until the book open on your lap seemed as blankly comforting as a glass of milk.

Death had come, but not for the reasons usually alleged. He found himself enchanted by your bones, which were light as piccolos, & your skull’s smile faintly visible under the skin like a subliminal advertisement for eternal spring. The clock stopped in mid-tick. Your eyes took on a faraway look.

Was I supposed to run after you? I was tired. My trademark guitar had long since gone electric – an axe, as they say. The kind with back-to-back blades: one for the kindling, one for the icy air.