Cells of Dead Objects
by Jason Nelson
Within the cells of dead objects are visits to the store, backyard treehouses, court rooms at night. Dead is the wrong word. Not that dying should never be the conclusion of ships catching fire, or lives caught falling from heights too high for soft organs. Instead these objects are the forgotten chairs pushed in the corner when a few guests fail to arrive. And settled in their cells are those interactions, those triggered places that sleep in our heads. A world within a world within what remains is a cliché. But so is every window closing, every light dimmed in contrast. Dead is a comma without batteries. Now travel on your streets and find limbs coaxed down by a storm. Take them home, bring to them fire. As the smoke makes neighbors nervous blowing from your concrete steps, watch the burning leaves wilt and curve away. You will see nothing in the fire’s jogging light. Move your hand, your arm close to the heat. And when you feel pain, stay there until you sweat, until you say whatever it is you say in harm’s hold. Then move fast inside and beneath the grade school microscope you saved in an attic box watch what happens in your skin.
There will be people watching caramelized commercials on rented leather couches. Move it slightly right and you’ll see change falling from a man’s pocket while running to a leaving bus.
