THE CONFESSION by Julia Chiapella

Given what we know now (the way a match is struck, how

long the collapse of the sentence), it seems important I tell you

the other day something didn't agree with me—some slipshod

salmon twisted into knots the center of all things digestible, a

simple error of judgement. We talked, a friend and I, the fork


and—distraction does something to all of us, doesn't it? How

often—the gaze focused, the ears turned in—has elsewhere

caught the attention and the other catches what you have

missed? This is not to say history is a series of distractions,

though it's a wonder we tag team its virtues, glide into its

aisles. Only

that I've wanted a thread and there isn't one. I took your hand

once, then there was a turning. I ate what I ate. You might say

I was distracted and this noise, the word, this flit across the

screen buys some time, a way to ignore the fates. But they

didn't come for us, did they? Only paused, spindles in hand.