By Jeffrey H. MacLachlan
Featured Art: Vendémiaire, plate 34 from Alcools by Louis Marcoussis
On my way home from an empty happy hour, God shoved me so I punched his
chin with a half-formed fist. He laughed and asked me if I knew who snapped
dinosaur tails like breadsticks. God was all effort like old dudes at pick-up
games. Leg-kicks striking thighs and elbows to the windpipe. My uppercut let
out a Hallelujah choir from the sky. He punched my liver and said I should get
some rest for once. You can’t keep this lifestyle forever. He pointed to his chin
and dodged a knockout swing. Why not go visit your kids? God headlocked me
like Mom’s boyfriends did after parole. I’m behind schedule so just fix your life.
He was right but that didn’t stop the stomping he had coming for not showing
up till that night.
Jeffrey H. MacLachlan also has recent work in Santa Clara Review, the minnesota review, The Meadow, among others. He is a Senior Lecturer of literature at Georgia College & State University.
Originally published in NOR 15