Portrait of energy, memory and conversation: sun, power lines, tails of seeds.
The scar is a rounded-rectangle shape smaller than my pinky nail. My fingertip circles the white portal at the center.
In 1984, a hand-packed bullet exploded inside a handgun—blowing a hole through the side of the chamber. Younger me, soon-to-be owner of her stupidest decision, stood in the shooter’s basement. I wore a bikini under my preppy shorts and v-neck tee. I crossed my arms, gripped my elbows.
I’d just met the guy with the gun. The one who’d gotten high with his buddy while we waited for my girlfriends. My friends were in their 20s but thought I was cool because I didn’t tell our manager where we waitressed what I saw: Joy Ann eating a chicken liver off a customer's plate before she delivered it. Susan's NyQuil which, I didn't know back then, made you stoned.
The guy’s house was decorated in vertical wood paneling, corduroy furniture–and dirt. This was not normal to me. I turned down a beer, a shot of J.D.. I monitored the door and the boa constrictor in the tank…