I carry a sword that blossoms into many. I count, six in hand, and as I count, two more sprout from the ground.
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The subway car sways; the windows rattle. I grab a pole as we hurtle into Union Square. A phrase from a song runs in my head: Now we are met let mirth abound. Over and over, round and around.
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In the garden, I lean into a shrub—winter jasmine—its weight prickles across my shoulders. I support it—fingers of branches just leafing out. Then a shift, a turn of gravity, and the plant is supporting me.
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On the patio, I wrap my scarf against evening wind, wish for mittens, for a rock band, for an intervention from our waiter. I quote a seventeenth century poet. You are still, eyes half closed. A truck rattles by, throwing spears of light. Then I see, you are crying.
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Tethered to a stake, arms behind my back, feet in mud, my eyes are covered. A fence—loose planked—surrounds my post. The boards chafe my skin. I am bound, but my mouth is free.
Katherine Gleason’s work has appeared in journals such as Cheap Pop, Derelict Lit, Every Day Fiction, HAD, Jellyfish Review, Lonesome, and Tiny Molecules, among others. Her play “The Toe Incident” won the Christopher Hewitt Award for Drama in 2020.