essay: #082: Satellite Sky
My editor says:
"Spin me a tale, bout the Wild Wild west."
Grey skies on swollen horizons.
Hurricanes upon my lips.
Within his eyes.
“I smiled and smiled, I smiled until my face hurt, but when my face did hurt I was sure he could tell. Everytime I forced myself to smile, he clearly knew that I didn’t feel like smiling, because he never smiled back. He hadn’t seen many smiles in his lifetime but he had seen yours, enough to recognize in comparison there was something wrong with Mother’s. It curled up falsely; it evaporated with revelatory rapidity when I turned from his crib. Is that where Kevin got it? In prison, that marionette smile, as if pulled up by strings.”
We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver.
# transmission ends #