by Micol Ostow
snatch the knife from shelly’s clenched fist.
swallow against the glee
that spreads the corners of her mouth
from cheek to cheek.
in a frenzied,
fevered
burst,
i charge.
i swipe.
i slice
at the singer’s
binding.
i set her
free.
a blink.
a beat.
a hiccup.
the room turns over,
rolls inside out,
tilted by the power of my sudden
current,
swift and sure.
in a dazzle of stardust, the singer is
gone;
out the door and into the inky night,
streaking like a meteor.
she is a whisper, a wisp.
a cipher.
released from the riptide.
saved.
it is almost as though
she never even
existed to begin with.
i breathe:
in.
and out.
i listen for sounds:
the rhythm of my heartbeat
keeping time
against
the pulsing
of the
undertow.
i breathe.
i listen for sounds.
i come to now.
back to now.
always,
infinitely
now.
i was a messenger.
i had a family.
but
this—
this is my
now.
and i am not
sorry.
the streams of worry
of fear
have begun to ebb
even beneath the constant pounding of
Henry’s pills.
even beneath
the raging tide
i have a moment
of well-deep
stillness.
and when junior starts—
when he steps
forward,
looming like a twister,
like an all-consuming
typhoon—
when he moves
toward me,
i turn.
feint forward,
uproot myself.
skirt him nimbly,
shift so swiftly,
so imperceptibly,
that in a
beat,
a blink,
a pulse,
within a momentary,
coiled pause:
i find
a rushing
current.
a wave.
slippery
but still
a foothold.
still a cloud-shape that will
guide me
toward the
horizon.
when i was six years old, i drowned.
and now:
i swim.
my undertow tugs
like an invisible membrane,
guiding me to a lifeline,
toward a rushing stream,
a current,
a fresh, clean channel
that beckons
just beyond the boundaries
of the flimsy screen door.
i will mark a path of moonstone, i know.
i know.
the singer is—
was—
stardust,
a whisper,
a wisp,
a cipher,
a ghost.
while i am merely
a
shipwreck.
sunken.
but
tides are guided
by the gleam of the moon.
and so am
i.
mirror-mel would say that
fractures,
fault lines—
that they follow you.
that broken is
forever.
infinite.
that shadows can’t be
shed.
mirror-mel would say that
magic
is only a
mirage.
but.
there is no such thing as either/or.
no such thing as mirror-mel.
no half-life
and never—
not ever—
before.
there is only my
self.
here.
now.
rusted,
but still reaching,
guided by the gleam
of the moon.
so in the now
i tear, fevered,
out the front door of this house,
charging past this moment,
streaking like a
supernova,
lighting up the atmosphere,
glittering
burning
throwing sparks.
the road beyond the canyon stretches far,
yawning black and open,
marked by scattered glints of moonstone.
a cluster.
a constellation.
a galaxy.
that is
mine.
this is the now.
my now.
this—
this is my after.
it is.
my before.
my always,
i am:
broken.
but i am:
solid.
i am:
afloat
but i ride the pressing, churning current.
the tide.
i
swim.
i am a shipwreck,
sunken treasure,
lit by moonstone.
rotted,
rusted,
alight, aflight,
afire.
but:
i have
chosen.
i have.
this
now;
it is
mine.
it is only
my
own.
and as i
flee the tangled webbing of my
tainted,
tattered,
fragile
family—
i know.
finally.
finally,
i know:
that there is
no such thing as
infinity,
after all.
that there is
nothing—
nothing—
after all,
that doesn’t
end.
acknowledgments
This book was a leap of faith for me in many ways, and would certainly never have come to be without the love, guidance, and support of many people.
My most sincere gratitude goes to my agent, Jodi Reamer of Writers House, who has helped to shape the evolution of my writing career, and who managed to keep an open mind when I asked if she’d like to see a verse novel about the Manson Family. Thanks also to her trusty right hand, Alec Shane.
My peers and advisors at Vermont College of Fine Arts were endlessly generous with their time, insight, and warmth, without which I might never have moved out of my creative comfort zone. In particular, Tim Wynne-Jones quite literally (and quite forcefully) insisted that I try my hand at something new, and Rita Williams Garcia offered invaluable feedback on early pages. Gwenda Bond, Gene Brenek, and Shawn Stout—there’s no one I’d rather storm Noble with than the three of you.
Elizabeth Law at Egmont USA is responsible for all of the very best parts of this book. Her early enthusiasm for the manuscript was matched only by the caliber of her editorial direction. I can’t imagine what family would have been without her insight.
Bottomless appreciation goes also to the entire extended Egmont crew: Mary Albi, Katie Halata, Alison Weiss, Becky Green, Doug Pocock, and Gordon Vanderkamp. Nico Medina, you understood my book intrinsically.
Hugs, kisses, and buckets of good karma to Katharine Sise and Nova Ren Suma, my early readers and always-muses. I am in awe of the both of you.
And finally, I am blessed with a wide network of family of my own, all of whom mean everything to me. My in-laws Len, Fleur, Liz, and Josh Harlan have welcomed me into the fold unconditionally. My brother, David Ostow, inspires, challenges, and amuses me. My mother, Carmen Ostow, schooled me in Stephen King and slasher movies, and my father, Jerry Ostow, tolerated (and sometimes even supported) our obsession with the macabre.
As for my husband, Noah Harlan—you are proof-positive of the existence of miracles. I love you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
