By: Gary Reddin
String Theory I
You asked me if maybe there were infinite yous scattered across a million timelines your hands softly kneading dough so distracted in your revery that you forgot to add the salt it’s okay I told you because somewhere out there you remembered
One Life Pulled from the Infinite
I know nothing of summer but I imagine it like this we sneak out the side door your father’s keys in your left hand trying not to wake the neighbors as we roar out of the driveway the Vandals screaming from the stereo singing along off key we drive three towns over not for drugs, or sex, or even rock and roll but to escape the light pollution so we can lay out on the hood ignoring the pressure in the July air like so many others that weigh on us you try and count every star while I try and count every you but like the stars you are infinite and I cannot see the whole you ask me a thousand questions I don’t tell you a single lie until eventually you fall asleep and the wounds of the world seem like nothing at all
Gary Reddin is a writer, poet, and recovering journalist from Southwestern Oklahoma. His work has appeared in Stoneboat, Essay Daily, The Dillydoun Review and elsewhere.