Matthew Dickman

Now anything can happen, anything in the world, you just name it, you just think it and it will appear like a father in a hallway who is less an astronaut and more a meteor which reminds me about how I feel sitting here thinking I never really wanted to live forever, not with this grass and this gravel talking about how human I am, but get me in a car, get me sitting at a table with my cousin...

My little sister walks away from the crash, the black ice, the crushed passenger side, the eighteen-wheeler that destroyed the car, and from a ditch on the side of the highway a white plastic bag floating up out of the grass where the worms are working slow and blind beneath the ants that march in their single columns of grace like soldiers before they’re shipped out, before war makes...