The Wish spreads its branches so twigs scratch third-floor windows, pushes through cracked glass into front rooms cluttered with books.
Every time the wish is amended, cells disperse, subdivide, multiply. Tomorrow the wish is a horse, a knight with its two forward one across,
his mane a scythe razing cornfields to the ground. The wish isn’t supposed to do that. The wish is out of control. The wish can be viewed from many angles;
today it’s a crow looking for soft spots to stab. Or a tricolor to wave at the toros who charge with muscled heads down. The wish lives in a little silver box with WISH written on it. The wish is big as America. The wish is totally irrelevant. The wish is yappy as a tethered dog and industrial in its persistence: a rhesus monkey that bares its teeth. On anniversaries the wish smiles like a chaise longue; its death cry sonorous as a foghorn.
The wish is as monumentally unfinished as Gaudí’s dripping catedral and needs you, always, to be absolutely specific.
The wish purrs behind an electrified fence where it keeps company with deer. The wish is a murmur barely overheard. The wish. Always the wish.
74
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