donnersville moon

MOSES WASN’T THERE in the morning, when I grabbed a stranger’s sleeve and begged him for money. Wasn’t there when the man looked in my face, and in pity dropped a twenty-dollar bill in my hand—then pushed me hard away from him.

Moses wasn’t there when I ran drug sick to the small cabin in Donnersville, where the meth heads went, where the people who weren’t me smoked the moon right outside, not caring. He wasn’t there when I handed the strange kid hanging from the window the money, stood there hugging myself, my face and hands feeling like a million bugs were crawling all over me. He wasn’t there as I stood there scratching till the blood ran down.

Wasn’t there to see me crowded next to the meth heads, smoking the moon up until I couldn’t breathe, until I couldn’t see. Until the world disappeared in a white-hot light of pain and noise and my own voice screaming out, I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe. Somebody help me. I can’t breathe anymore!

And then . . . nothing at all.

Where are you, Moses?

I’m looking for you.

Where is your bread? Where is your chocolate?

I’m looking for you, Laurel. I’m looking for you.