Auditioning for a role in my life, I sing the alphabet to the best of my ability. But B runs away first thing, skitters up the Judge’s chair and into her dress. After chasing B out, little F goes next, hiding in a crack between floorboards. I had a friend whose screen name was floorboard611. I always wondered if she was born in the DMV, to think of something that boring. Next, K shimmies down my shift as though I dribbled her, my mouth shining with chance as the lobby of hell opens to a greeting desk staffed by cockroaches and empty wine bottles. Will my audition make the stars sparkle or yawn? Sleepy, the Judge mutters, “Next.”
Miniature Moon 