By Conor Gearin
Time splits in panes of glass here. A different year framed between each window’s varnished frieze and apron. Looking out one view a hill descends to a stream. Out another, a city of millions. Low-angle roof as if raising the prairie terrain two stories, creating a space for lives below. A drain in the basement for what gravity draws downward from a life. A chimney to interface with the unbounded skies. From the front attic dormer, neighbor kids playing in the street. From the rear dormer, a wasteland, centuries of crumbled homes piled in heaps. Step outside and look at this place from a distance. A perfect square, pyramid roof, Egyptian entryway. A palace or a tomb or both. Through the art-glass panel on the east side of the house, when the sun strikes, see the days kaleidoscope as if seeking resolution, aligning like and unlike colors in the pattern required by primeval music unheard until this moment. Write it down.
Conor Gearin is a writer from St. Louis living in Omaha. His work has appeared in The New Territory, Chariton Review, ONE ART, Frozen Sea, Mochila Review, The Oxonian Review, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and elsewhere.
MoonPark Review 