ORBIT

By

Claudia Smith

There's an old planet, so old its sun takes up half the sky. But that light is weak, a Polaroid soaked in our father's gin. On this planet they still drive chariots and the skies thunder but there is never any rain.

Our father sleeps under a pecan tree, hands clasped over his belly. His fingers are stubby, not much bigger than my brother's. We unfold them. I scoop sleepy dirt from the corner of his eye. Wake up wake up wake up, we say.

We run in and out, slamming doors. We muddy the floor with our bare feet. Berry feets, we say, squashing blackberries, pressing our thumbs into the prints. A thumbprint is like a snowflake. Footprints also.

Enchanted castles are often frozen during the busiest hours. A cook is caught dangling a naked chicken over the boiling pot. Maidens are threading needles, plucking flower petals. Fat men are spitting, farting, chewing. Dogs in midair, leaping for squirrels. But ours is not a castle. It is a planet. The queen is somewhere, on an orange hill, bathing in the rosy light of the old sun. Listening to Patsy Cline sing about her crazy love.

But when the sun goes down, the planet is dead. Bugs flash in a jar by our bunk beds. We sit in front of the snowy television screen, waiting for someone to tell us to go to bed.