Rebecca Gopoian

The sign says wait to be seated, and I want to obey it. My shadow, faint and spotty, slides over the objects in the room as I pace. I may have killed or endangered someone. My conscience is filtered, always on guard.

A fractured bone, a shattered thermometer, shreds of paper, these can be repaired and used, laced into a weak kite and flown.

When I broke my leg I was happy. What a relief to accomplish something. Afterward, I got to rest.

This is a crime, and I'm climbing in.