There are foxes on my shorts. All of ‘em are walking left, circling around my shorts like an orange vortex. When I look at ‘em, I like to imagine myself dying in the middle of a similar circle. I’d be laid down in the forest, somewhere dry and quiet. Foxes would circle around me, all going to the left, like a lost funeral procession. They’d keep me company in my final moments, never asking any questions or providing any criticisms. Maybe it’s too much to ask but I secretly hope they’ll stick around a little longer once I’m gone— keep the birds off of me and what not—until my survivors discover me. Even better, maybe they’d catch me once my spirit started drifting away, and carry me like one of their own. Then I could join ‘em and surround all the others who lay down in the forest to die.
“An Orange Vortex” appears in issue 7.1 of Underground Art & Literary Journal.