I see her rising off the bathroom tiles, toes pointing downward.
I know this is a dream but I also know this actually happened, once, a long time ago.
Except then Anya was dry and fully clothed and she was in a hallway not a bathroom. And she was alive.
Now Anya is dead and I am watching her rise.
She is slick and bright with moisture (indicating that she has just gotten out of the clawfoot tub which she hovers in front of) and wrapped in a beige towel which covers her from the freckled tops of her breasts to just below her thighs.
Her hair is a water-darkened mass plastered against her back.
Palms turned out, hands quivering with rigidity. As are the muscles in her flush-pink face.
Her nose is bleeding, just as it was that time in the hallway. A thin scarlet thread snaking its way from her left nostril to the edge of her chin.
I marvel at the phenomena of inches separating Anya’s feet from the floor.
I marvel at Anya, and the nearness of her unreachability.
Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag.
His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.