A gab with two soldiers at a border, between two countries whose brothers know how to fight well. And rest. Their weddings will be like a closet full of coats in a country full of deserts and no camels, mountains, only fountains with rusty rocks, coats of the finest sheep’s hair, and pretty, the ladies love the pretty.
I begin to tell you about the time I talked with two soldiers, at a border, between two countries, and already the sun is gone, behind a cloud, waiting for your answer. Will you marry me? I think. Therefore, I am alone. I wanted you. Because you loved me first. Before Jupiter. Before the birches behind my back yard. Because moms and dads don’t know how to love their kids in the same way. Before that.
And then, the soldiers were killed by a bomb, set off by an old woman carrying her shoes in her hand. Why did she do it? Carry them like soft fish, a wet secret she wanted everyone made akin to. I want to laugh. This is my secret. I want everyone to laugh, to smile and say, "How are you? I’ve missed you. Welcome, brother."
Currently serving time at Chili's in D'Iberville, Mississippi, J. Marcus Weekley also knows how to quilt, draw, and photograph, and is teaching his sister about sashing strips and binding. His work is in from four years, Look Out Below and Other Tales, and Texas Dance Halls, among others, which may be found at www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2 or www.lulu.com/whynottryitagain.
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