An Automated Harvest
The machine that spins wire also spins rope and in nature is more akin to a twisted umbilical cord than an arachnid's spinnerets. We must tie every fetus down to a womb. We hold babies in plenitude, but the mother-end of the strand is largely unclaimed. We receive a call for intimacy, but the caller must leave a message or hang up. We don't know how long the cassette tape will run. Already there are spools stored in a warehouse. Hundreds of feet of magnetic tape. Play it to hear a whisper.
“I know you are still afraid of the dark. I was there when you dreamed of the blood soaking your legs only to wake in a puddle of your own urine, I know that you hit her. I know your shame...”
“I know that you woke with his screams and his fists, and wondered why, until you changed the sheets. I know that you've forgotten what it's like to be kissed...”
“I know that you want your grandfather to die. I know that you are already afraid of being useless...”
“I am afraid of being forgotten. I am afraid for my children. I am afraid that you do not love me the way I love you. I am...”
The first length of tape is a WORD hanging in the air by a single strand.
(The machines will finish the harvest, because there aren't enough men and women to clip and carry every sheaf of wheat.)
~By Zachary Garver~
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