An Old Game The Wiz­ard

The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Heather Chris­tle

I am try­ing to re­mem­ber the dif­fer­ence be­tween things. Be­tween stand­ing and blink­ing, be­tween open­ing a win­dow and hid­ing in the woods un­til din­ner. No one should help me. I can re­mem­ber the rules, but still have a hard time play­ing. Last week at the card shop I gave the clerk some money and a card. I meant for her to keep them both but was un­clear in my di­rec­tions. Then I had no money and one card. When I opened it up it flashed a light at me like it was tak­ing my pic­ture. Then I was de­vel­op­ing. I could not re­mem­ber if things had al­ways been this way. Don’t tell me. That would be cheat­ing and be­sides, the an­swer is here be­hind my tongue, giv­ing me nu­tri­ents I need to stay alive. I wish that every event did not so much re­sem­ble its brother. Good­bye Lorca I keep say­ing on my knees. I love how a wet leaf feels against my fingers: calm, with no pro­gres­sion. No dif­fer­ent than an ele­phant paus­ing to ex­pire. Good­bye ele­phant I keep say­ing to ev­ery­thing in case. I would lean against all peo­ple and fall asleep

only how can I be cer­tain that they are not saplings with just enough strength to stay up­right them­selves.

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