Miriam Alex
Planned Obsolescence
is the absence of begging.
One, establishment.
The definition of your body is everything
it is not. Faces in the stucco north
of the parking lot. Black & white newspaper
clippings in your desk or in their driveways,
rained into pulp. Auditorium memorials
or trophy shelves. The rotting of nickel.
You are at the gas station when you realize
the road marker for your grave is being shipped
soon. The worth it must take, you think,
to be preserved gently.
Two, an affair with your limits. Unscrewing the arms
from the speed dials. Discontinuities & sweat against
the dashboard. The notes in the margins
of the script describe how you will brace: gently,
with your hands over your head. Like tornado
drills at 8:30 AM, when you were small & drowsy
& you stared at the linoleum for fifteen silent minutes
so afraid to blink in case you'd miss zero hour.
When you arrive at the site of the accident
yet to happen, you practice fracturing
your skull against your mother’s
steering wheel.
Three, the crash or heart failure.
There is no storm, only the velocity of a body
in a skidding car. Cracked window pane
or the green line on the monitor flattening
into a beaten horizon. Bloody pulp
or empty Sunkist bottles. A schedule
crumpled in the back of your shoe. You lie
still for the moving shot. Everything is
too abstract. Where did you try to go,
in that car you left smoking in the desert?
Did you imagine you'd make it?
One, establishment.
The definition of your body is everything
it is not. Faces in the stucco north
of the parking lot. Black & white newspaper
clippings in your desk or in their driveways,
rained into pulp. Auditorium memorials
or trophy shelves. The rotting of nickel.
You are at the gas station when you realize
the road marker for your grave is being shipped
soon. The worth it must take, you think,
to be preserved gently.
Two, an affair with your limits. Unscrewing the arms
from the speed dials. Discontinuities & sweat against
the dashboard. The notes in the margins
of the script describe how you will brace: gently,
with your hands over your head. Like tornado
drills at 8:30 AM, when you were small & drowsy
& you stared at the linoleum for fifteen silent minutes
so afraid to blink in case you'd miss zero hour.
When you arrive at the site of the accident
yet to happen, you practice fracturing
your skull against your mother’s
steering wheel.
Three, the crash or heart failure.
There is no storm, only the velocity of a body
in a skidding car. Cracked window pane
or the green line on the monitor flattening
into a beaten horizon. Bloody pulp
or empty Sunkist bottles. A schedule
crumpled in the back of your shoe. You lie
still for the moving shot. Everything is
too abstract. Where did you try to go,
in that car you left smoking in the desert?
Did you imagine you'd make it?
Biography
Miriam Alex is a seventeen-year-old from southern New Hampshire. Her work is forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Gone Lawn, and Uncanny Magazine. At the moment, she is probably playing word games on her phone while re-watching her favorite sitcoms. She hopes you have a lovely day.
Twitter @miriamcore_.
Twitter @miriamcore_.
