Ethan Lebowitz
Hours after bedtime, staring at your ceiling swept by the headlights of passing cars on main street you saw your great victories built of sand, cactus pith, and a helicopter flying back into the distant mountains that loomed jagged. You gave up trying to repack your parachute but you’d be ok because you would find water and your friends and talk by a fire built of sweat, blisters, and PG cursing and the night critters would hear you. The lizards, and centipedes, and scorpions. They would hear your laughter and they would hear the mountains shiver as the coyotes laughed back and they would smile a little. Those same headlights now, even with your red curtains drawn, filter through and illuminate your defeat. It blankets the floor and clings to the walls like prairie fungus. Creeping mycelium tendrils seek to wrap you in their silky threads and you, watching your clock count towards dawn, try not to think about it. Because look how beautifully their delicate stipes balance deep inky caps. And how exquisite are the feather like gills that brush cold against your neck as they shift in the wind of your gently spinning ceiling fan. Somehow the mountains seem to stand right above you now, and you want to walk in the other direction because the coyotes have fallen silent and the granite spires already press into your throat. But you can’t.
Originally published in Leviathan issue 3 2019