Birth of a Dixie Prophet
from issue Number 3, July 2010
by Michael Healy

The brutal humidity of the Southern
summer upon him, a boy draws cold water from a faucet
into one of those wax Dixie cups embroidered with pastel flowers
against a white background.

He turns off the running water, turns around
and starts across the kitchen
linoleum when his left shoe tip lands just a little too early
and his right catches him.

The corrective jerk and scare make just enough error
to make the cup start down from his hand, spinning on
the path to nothing much: a nearly silent, artless landing;
miniature bounces off the floor for this open cylinder;
water on off-white linoleum.

But the near-infinite artless possibilities
do not occur today as the cup lands just so, upright, bottom to floor,
top to air, no drops or protean puddles, one unit of clear water sealed in
a white, flowery wall of wax paper.

The boy, eyes wide, does not believe at first,
knowing without calculation how
unlikely this is and wonders if the kitchen fell off the world with
no corrective step to save it, and is now spinning so fast in oblivion
he thinks he’s still. Being so small this far out
is a new kind of pain, he thinks.

With no geometry for his ideas, strange images are all
he has to spin this right, so he thinks of church
with mother and father and the man with flowing robes
calling that white circle bread and flesh
and the red drink, the wine blood. Yeah, that’s it:
the blood is tap water; the flesh is wax paper.

Back to the Table of Contents for Number 3

About the Author
Michael Healy is a writer and reader in Boston.