Apocryphon (197–)

A secret book dwells within you of untranslatable fragments only to be deciphered as mysteries foretold by the myriad known and unknown you meet and scarcely recall. The scent of wet cement. Flash of platinum mane. Scarlet line navigating around the bend, her dress a flag around my inchoate wet engine. Disappearing. Reappearing with a thousand masks. “Play with me every day before you leave,” he (his name long gone) said an action figure in his grip days before my family were to move from a childhood home, “And you’ll never forget me.” My brother Kevin toothsome grinning, holding two sponge balls in front of his spectacles and peering regally at them. One eclipses the other. “See?” I blink. I am five. “That’s why it’ll get dark.” I buried a diamond the size of my fist behind a rock in a secret hovel in the wall of the drive way berm. “And as long as I am with you, give heed to me and obey me; but when I depart from you, remember me. And remember me because when I was with you, you did not know me,” Jesus to his apostles a full five hundred days after his resurrection.

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