e. v. noechel |
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It Follows
From Museum Mundane
There are days when I know it's there behind me, sleek and leathery like the tail of a rat, but feline in movement, swishing nastily like an organic metronome ticking off the seconds of my two legged life. An amputee, I feel my ghost-tail brushing against my back, tapping my shoulder like a bad joke, disappearing when I turn around. It follows, my animal heritage, stolen from me like a name full of consonants at immigration. At night, I dream of low brush, of streetlamps at dawn, red plastic water bowls, and my vertebrae friend, who follows me, twitching impatiently, waiting for me to wonder why I was cheated and how can it possibly be an advantage to lose a limb. |
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