The Physics of Imaginary Objects (Pitt Drue Heinz Lit Prize) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Tina May Hall
She writes, “Mark clapped the back of his hand to his forehead and said, ‘I am overcome.'” And, “Frank sank gracefully onto the divan.” And, “Steve reached out blindly as the world went gray.”
Underwater, we are transparent.
Our mothers won't let us sit on their laps.
Colleen is deaf. We broke all of our grandmothers' rose-decaled plates proving it. We speak to her in signs and spell out the unusual words. Filament, Frangipani, Balzac. She sings us to sleep with her stony voice. She wakes at dawn to bake saffron buns with fat raisins poking out like roaches. In public, we must be careful. The sight of our fingers spelling causes heart attacks and car accidents. Mostly, we wait to talk in the dark, in bathroom stalls and movie theaters, broom closets and basements, our hands pressed into her hand, our knuckles kissing.
We fit six across the backseat and shiver together, arms and legs wrapped like eels around each other.
Olivia, Ophelia, and Odette are identical triplets. They have red hair that has never been cut. They sleep on piles of it, bind it up in knots and rolls for the daytime, let it unfurl like bolts of silk after dark. They sing in unison, their clear voices making a chord. They tap dance and juggle knives. They do a ventriloquist act at the burlesque theater downtown. Between the strippers, the triplets appear, holding three dolls with long, red hair. They are perfectly synchronized; they never falter. Their lips don't move. Once in a while, a chartreuse feather floats down from the catwalk or the light shifts and the stage glitters with loosened sequins. For the finale, they sit perfectly still, until the audience forgets which are the dolls and which the girls and breaks into spontaneous applause.
We will grow up to be spelunkers, ballerinas, and landscape architects.
In fairy tales, we are the last to be eaten.
They call us late bloomers, daddy longlegs, frigid. They call us by each other's names and names we've never known and seat us in the back row of the plane, not realizing that it is our prayers keeping everyone from going down in a scream of burning metal. They call us sweetheart in the dark, never guessing we are all around them, so many of us packed in tight. That old game, we think. Breast, hip, thigh. Sardines , it was called, and the goal was to stay hidden.
We wash in teacups. We chart the stars on our scapulae, make telescopes of thumbs and forefingers. We cut our nails short as boys', the better to scratch at the chiggers embedded in our shins. We know our blood is sweet to drink; we know our bones are irresistible.
Kick
Last night, Ben dreamed of Freud and woke up laughing. He remembered this suddenly, as the lawn chair with its frayed, vinyl strips creaked against his fidgeting. Pale Johnnie threw two more steaks on the grill and some sausages and a bouquet of tender, pink chicken breasts. This was the monthly distance-running club gathering, and they were all on high-protein diets. Ben ran the farthest of them all, though Marco was the fastest. Ben was also the oldest of them, by nine years, an eternity to a runner, nearly two age groups. He shifted again, folding and unfolding his grasshopper legs.
Across the field, Jessamy was playing with the kids, throwing a kite into the air, trying in vain to catch a scrap of breeze. It was July, and the air was like honey. She called to the little boy holding the string (one of Pale Johnnie's kids—hair the same brush of white blond), “Run, run.” And the boy ran, dragging the kite behind him, the tip tripping over the stubbly earth. Jessamy was a runner too but only marathons, not ultramarathons, and she walked through the water stops. At Ben's events she took photos, shuttling from point to point to catch him. Invariably in these photos, Ben was mid-stride, mouth agape, left shoulder higher than the other, hands clenched. The other members of the club looked at the photos and
Underwater, we are transparent.
Our mothers won't let us sit on their laps.
Colleen is deaf. We broke all of our grandmothers' rose-decaled plates proving it. We speak to her in signs and spell out the unusual words. Filament, Frangipani, Balzac. She sings us to sleep with her stony voice. She wakes at dawn to bake saffron buns with fat raisins poking out like roaches. In public, we must be careful. The sight of our fingers spelling causes heart attacks and car accidents. Mostly, we wait to talk in the dark, in bathroom stalls and movie theaters, broom closets and basements, our hands pressed into her hand, our knuckles kissing.
We fit six across the backseat and shiver together, arms and legs wrapped like eels around each other.
Olivia, Ophelia, and Odette are identical triplets. They have red hair that has never been cut. They sleep on piles of it, bind it up in knots and rolls for the daytime, let it unfurl like bolts of silk after dark. They sing in unison, their clear voices making a chord. They tap dance and juggle knives. They do a ventriloquist act at the burlesque theater downtown. Between the strippers, the triplets appear, holding three dolls with long, red hair. They are perfectly synchronized; they never falter. Their lips don't move. Once in a while, a chartreuse feather floats down from the catwalk or the light shifts and the stage glitters with loosened sequins. For the finale, they sit perfectly still, until the audience forgets which are the dolls and which the girls and breaks into spontaneous applause.
We will grow up to be spelunkers, ballerinas, and landscape architects.
In fairy tales, we are the last to be eaten.
They call us late bloomers, daddy longlegs, frigid. They call us by each other's names and names we've never known and seat us in the back row of the plane, not realizing that it is our prayers keeping everyone from going down in a scream of burning metal. They call us sweetheart in the dark, never guessing we are all around them, so many of us packed in tight. That old game, we think. Breast, hip, thigh. Sardines , it was called, and the goal was to stay hidden.
We wash in teacups. We chart the stars on our scapulae, make telescopes of thumbs and forefingers. We cut our nails short as boys', the better to scratch at the chiggers embedded in our shins. We know our blood is sweet to drink; we know our bones are irresistible.
Kick
Last night, Ben dreamed of Freud and woke up laughing. He remembered this suddenly, as the lawn chair with its frayed, vinyl strips creaked against his fidgeting. Pale Johnnie threw two more steaks on the grill and some sausages and a bouquet of tender, pink chicken breasts. This was the monthly distance-running club gathering, and they were all on high-protein diets. Ben ran the farthest of them all, though Marco was the fastest. Ben was also the oldest of them, by nine years, an eternity to a runner, nearly two age groups. He shifted again, folding and unfolding his grasshopper legs.
Across the field, Jessamy was playing with the kids, throwing a kite into the air, trying in vain to catch a scrap of breeze. It was July, and the air was like honey. She called to the little boy holding the string (one of Pale Johnnie's kids—hair the same brush of white blond), “Run, run.” And the boy ran, dragging the kite behind him, the tip tripping over the stubbly earth. Jessamy was a runner too but only marathons, not ultramarathons, and she walked through the water stops. At Ben's events she took photos, shuttling from point to point to catch him. Invariably in these photos, Ben was mid-stride, mouth agape, left shoulder higher than the other, hands clenched. The other members of the club looked at the photos and
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