Landon Whitley

Hiding a Burnt Memory

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2025: VOL. 40.

You never did discover what popped the tires of your car. Once, you were young, and sweeter than a peach, not yet ripe with a pit that would crack teeth. You turned into a patch of upturned soil that didn’t have a seed. How many weeks have passed since you watered a plant? The jade by your window leans into the blinds, and a stranger taught you that it had to pirouette. When your uncle dies you give it to your grandmother’s sister, who sleeps in the room you left. In your classroom the children name the plants. Oswald, Kermit, Biggie Cheese. Decades dedicated to a wrestling match you can’t remember. No one else was there before you were anyone at all. In dreams a leprechaun kidnapped your brother. In another you ran from something you couldn’t look in the eyes. Your father taught you how to fight fantasy. Your mother had a dream you were the devil. A child grabbed the shadow by its coat and sent him away. The man never chased you through your sleep again. How many hours have you spent punching a cloud? How many homes have you shot with a flaming arrow? How many actually burned to the ground? How many bottles did you toss in the fire? What will you do with the ash? How many bubbles does it take to boil an egg? How many flakes did the shell crack into, before you took a bite?

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