from River of Love

by Kami Enzie

BWR 49.2 Flash Contest Runner-Up

Like a morgue of oranges inside the lower crisper laid. Loose rinds bruised, and if not torn, still their battered segments will again never repaired be, not really. Waxy bodies deep welled yet near zested to rot, petrified. Peels touched with white mold and darksome burns as if brushed by green fire, brown spots (black rot) at their blossom end or in their navel growing. Forlorn inside the bottom storage pan that glides beneath the shelf spare with souring yogurt and wrinkled, loose grapes slumped in dewy condensation across the frosty pane. Nor am I able to divine the cleromantic significance from this found constellation of scattered fruit, relevant to our pursuit of liberty, of money. In your sleeping presence, my eyes switch ac/dc in their sockets.  I inevitably find myself back inside the fridge. I clean the countertop, the petite canyon of dishes. Trash the pizza box.  The sinking river running through it gushes voiceless pounding down. I pour two glasses of orange juice. I stream Ballroom  Throwbacks, scroll through bitch tracks and entwine both hands around my head to fashion an emoting crown of fingers.  I peek into the fridge door for proof of light and something larger, before the empire strikes again wrapping epiphanic darkness in gauzy bolts of light. In the morning, you will find breakfast readied from things present and good in our pantry. I  will help you shave your back like a lamb. Before the mass grave of oranges, the appearance of weathered, severed pygmy heads inside red mesh polypropylene bags, every dimpled, sensuous body grew fat in a buffet of CO2 and sunlight in halcyon blue Egypt, South Africa, Daytona, down the international supply chain, carrying idiosyncratic ways of wanting to be peeled open without breaking apart unique to the individual.  We drove them home one night in the backseat from the Hy Vee on North Dodge with mutual approval and excitement. Safe together. Nothing more to spark from the orange manes of mold that rhyme with sun. When the trigger wedge for the refrigerator light flies away into the ceiling, may velvet dark keep sleep in your crystal castle. When the covey scatters from your window, dream me a place of rest inside that ziggurat.

Kami Enzie is currently an MFA Candidate and Truman Capote Fellow at The Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His work is forthcoming in The Columbia Review. Before Iowa, he was based in New York City. (IG: @yungwerther)