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Future Fable

By: Schuyler Mitchell

Future me is washing her dishes in the sink

Sockless, cockeyed, prone to puckering

Her fingers drop waterlockets on the linoleum

Future me sucks the sauce off, presses thumb to teeth

Hides sun in quiver

Parts the soft pink flesh of cheek

And scoops out rusted timewrinkles

Future me knows bodies like pirate maps and witch spells

Dark matter, fishflight

When the bottom drops out and the bottle rocket blasts,

She knows how to waive her grief

Crave sweat in the hum of twilight

Future me is roaming through seaside caves and

Discovering lost things and

Holding them out to you in the palm of their hand,

Saying, here, this is what I’ve gleaned from life, and

Here, future me is breaking and entering –

Didn’t you see?

They dropped off their slumberwishes in the foyer

Then collapsed on a pillow of moth wings

Tied cherry stems to bedframes

And fed oranges to sugar spies

(Future me waxes and wanes with the seahorses

To hell with ocean tides)

No girl nor woman, future me is just a magnifying glass

And a lamppost

And a moonmass of undulating light

Future me is humble but desirous

Kind, maybe even gentle now

But most of all, future me is swaying, singing, in the kitchen The ceiling parts

I look up

I see stars

Schuyler Mitchell is a Brooklyn-based journalist and writer, originally from North Carolina and California. Their reporting and criticism has been published by The Intercept, Los Angeles Magazine, and Consequence, and their poetry has appeared in the Agave Review.


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