Free Family by Micol Ostow

to
    spoil.
    a story about
    a message gone
    sour.
    “a concert,” He says, waving His free arm languidly.
    “lots of performers.
    it was supposed to be a celebration.
    supposed to be about love and light.
    but it went bad.
    “that would never happen to us.
    to our family.
    “we’re gonna get our music out there,” He says.
    “spread our message.
    one day.
    you’ll see.”
    i believe it, of course.
    of course, i believe it.
    Henry’s word is gospel.
    and my sisters and i,
    His faithful choir.
    i sidle closer still, until we are so tightly pressed together that we might be breathing from the same lungs. i gaze up at Henry with wide-eyed worship. tilt my body toward Him, rest a tentative hand on His knee.
    i open my hollow spaces to Him. it may be that i am not His only grateful supplicant.
    
    so far. infinity. light-years away.
    but. tonight, i am here, alone. i am chosen.
    tonight, His stories are for
    me.
    Henry’s love is full to bursting. overflowing.
    Henry’s love is torrents, tides. raging fevers of always .
    He burns.
    we all burn.
    the whole world is
    
    burning.
    but tonight
    my world
    is
    still.

chaos
    i want to know.
    burn to know.
    alone, with Henry, in His bed, i need to hear. to learn. from Henry.
    about a time when a message went sour.
    about a time when the love and light
    transformed
    into something filthy and fetid.
    about a time
    that turned.
    that went
    bad.
    i ask, “what happened?”
    Henry makes a deep, choked sound, something between a laugh and something else; a noise more full, more round, more
    
    supple.
    “people forget,” He says.
    “people don’t want to think about stuff like that.”
    
    He says:
    “it was chaos. total chaos.”
    His eyes glitter. His body shudders.
    there is something about the word: chaos. something fierce.
    chaos.
    the word slithers, undulates, winds its way down Henry’s spine. i can see it growing, gathering speed, strength, silent power. i can see Henry straighten against the backboard of the bed.
    i can see it burrow deep, lodge itself within His fault lines.
    
    chaos is a fierce thing.
    Henry purses His lips. swallows forcefully. brushes a wild thatch of hair from His eyes.
    “too many people, getting riled. and security got out of control.
    the crew—
    the men that were hired to keep the peace—
    they got violent with the crowd.
    lots of folks were injured. some died.”
    some died.
    a bitter taste builds up inside of me, rises to the back of my throat. i look down, away, reach for a glass of water.
    i think: violence .
    i think: bodies .
    crushing, reaching, stretching bodies.
    feverish, electric bodies, roiling and churning.
    bodies pulled by an invisible undertow.
    bodies rushing toward the now , toward the
    half-life.
    toward a collective, unknown,
    afterlife.
    bodies. so many bodies. too many.
    torrents of skin and bone.
    skin and bone, and blood.
    Henry shakes His head, makes the guttural sound again. “that this would happen at a concert. a concert. don’t people know?
    music is the message.
    music is how we spread our word.
    music is how we share our love.”
    music.
    Henry’s music will reach, expand, fill. it will creep toward all the bodies and seep into the empty places.
    Henry’s music, His message—it is always, now, forever.
    it is infinity.
    and it will be heard.
    “music and chaos are two separate things,” Henry continues, more to Himself than to me, now.
    He repeats: “two separate things.” this is an important point. a point worth sharing.
    this is a point that has meaning.
    He is right, of course. He is . right.
    He is always right.
    music is love.
    Henry is love.
    but chaos?
    chaos is a fierce thing.
    chaos burrows deep.

in the now
    life on the ranch is not very chaotic.
    chaos is outside.
    we are taught: there is no i , no ego , no before.
    we are taught: there is only the now .
    but in the now: there are routines.