Anya Johnson
Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!
When I was 25, children were a kind of unwelcome animal. I wasn’t around them much then—I spent
most of my time hurrying from one place to another without managing to go anywhere. Anything
definite existed in the distance. At work, I watched the streets from behind a bar or a waxed podium,
days framed by the laminated edge of a restaurant plan. The servers wore cheap synthetic tuxedos,
shirtsleeves rolled up. It never got hot or cold. On the horizon there was a smudge of desert, the way
everything in east los angeles is both a desert and a horizon. The stumps of tealights guttered in a
rubber breeze. One night a couple sat on the patio with a little boy laced into a highchair. Everything
they ordered ended up on the sidewalk. Everyone seemed to accept this. I couldn’t see the point of him,
his soft, idiotic paws grasping at the table. His parents finally noticed, grudgingly, when he threw a saucer
from the table, splitting it into two chalky slices. The mother lifted the pieces, fitting them together
and apart. She spoke quickly, in Russian. Together, apart. See, this is whole, now it’s broken.
Text From Unknown Number
9:13: Can you send a photo of her without a saddle
on her back?
I am waiting for night to dark
the windows. How is your mare
on trails, through water
and over small logs, etc?
I believe I am losing my youth
ful glow, I am afraid to look in mirrors.
Would you consider a trade?
I do.
9:18: I will trade her for one thousand paper cuts.
...
...
...
In the waiting I build my mare, unsaddled,
a wild thing with a serpent’s tail. She’s beautiful.
I already regret the trade.
9:28: Very good!
The creature, newly created, dozes in my palm.
Some follow-up questions:
9:34: Will it hurt?
9:34: Is one thousand enough?
9:34: Will my body ribbon?