Wagons, Indians, and Pioneers by Matthew Dexter

We became blood brothers. Back when AIDS wasn’t all over the news, in the eighties, when we pierced our index fingers with a shared needle, sterilized and blackened with a non-childproof lighter of course, and three of us became one, promising never to lose touch.

After the ritual we smoked stolen cigarettes and cigars from your father’s basement office in Alpine, New Jersey. That same desk is where we borrowed the porno magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler. Smoked them atop the abandoned swing set beneath the green Conestoga wagon canvas tent of abandoned playground equipment in your backyard. We flicked fluorescent ashes into broken seashells.

Haven’t seen either of you bastards for two decades, but sometimes I stick my ear against the pink spiral of the conch shell on top of the toilet, hold it against my head, listen to the wind in your backyard as the bathroom closes in, shut my eyes and stick my lips against the spiral of the Eustrombus gigas, release a trumpet sound, a high-pitched battle call–can you hear me during one of your recent heroin stupors in the Florida Keys? Will you ever answer me again? If the siphonal canal of the queen conch could talk it would tell you that the kingdom if still alive, we don’t have HIV. The purple spire and protoconch are still intact. Tell me you’re still alive. We’re still brothers, goddamn it all.


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Filed under Matthew Dexter

6 responses to “Wagons, Indians, and Pioneers by Matthew Dexter

  1. Poignant by surprise. Very well done.

  2. Pingback: Stories and Poetry by Matthew Dexter « Stories by Matthew Dexter

  3. The lost bloodbrother/sister is universal. Who of us hasn’t lost someone and felt the urge to trumpet across time and space to try to reach them? You balance well the “moving” qualities without falling in to much sentimentality.

  4. Very potent. Loved this.

  5. The near desperate voice here, calling to someone who is lost, or never to be found. Heart-wrenching and relatable. The intimacy is palpable. Bravo.

  6. Pingback: Week #45 – Broken shells | 52|250 A Year of Flash

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