B Rivka Clifton
Homunculus
That summer, the whole city smelled of reefer. I leaned back from the table while my neighbor’s eyes flowered in the half-light of a lamp placed in the corner. And after that, I sat at my desk and watched the bed sheets stiffen and relax like the face’s little muscles. A muscle after a hit. I spoke a big game. About equality. The “sublime.” I turned the corner from the restaurant’s hallway to where I washed dishes. I saw the owner swing and connect his elbow to his wife’s temple. It was my neighbor’s birthday. At one time, he beat every chess player in Nebraska. He told us a story about the homunculus in his brain. I said, My boss beats his wife. Scratch that. I said nothing. I inhaled and inhaled. I turned around and collected the dishes from the bus tub. Who was I to stand up? My feet shrank to less than human proportion. I tripped. The summer bled its slow artery across the horizon. My neighbor poured his drink all over the floor. My homunculus is easily observable, he said. He tilted his head so the light flowed into his ear. I peeked in. The owner’s wife often held their daughter in a baby wrap. The tiny body stirred. Soon, bulldozers would level the building. I couldn’t say where anyone ended up. After work, my friends carried me down the stairs. They tucked me into the night’s tender brain.
B Rivka Clifton is the author of the chapbooks MOT and Agape (from Osmanthus Press). They have work in: Pleiades, Guernica, Cincinnati Review, Salt Hill, Colorado Review, The Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, and other magazines. They are an avid record collector and curator of curiosities.