
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
lifted
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.