Find me in the recesses of time, in broken memory, in sleep charged with a bolt of concomitant suffering. Find me at the bottom of the glass, swirling around with the dregs. Find me somewhere else. Find me in the arms of a man or woman spinning on a dancefloor, our backs sweaty with rage and hunger. Find me nowhere. Find me in the gathering clouds overhead, in the juice dripping from my beard as I eat the fruit. Find me on the tongue of an actor on the screen, on the flight back home. Find me struggling to defend. Find me in different clothes. Find me with the blood, with the firmament, with the belt buckle on the floor. Find me in the close-up shot, in the car. Find me with a jaunty wildflower stem poking stupidly from my mouth, with a collection of ink blots, with dynamite. Find me in the deep. Find me floating. Find me cowering. Find me with the majestic buck with antlers dipped in whiskey, with cinnamon on my breath, with too many stones in my pockets. Find me in the living room bare-chested, in the moonlight brushed with desire, in the barn. Find me stretched out in the bed, waiting.
Luke Wortley is a writer living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in monkeybicycle, Hobart, Best Microfictions, Pithead Chapel, The Florida Review, Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. You can follow him on Twitter (@LukeWortley) or visit https://www.lukewortley.com/