I took the question of us and laid it across the table, where you had pulled your hands back. I thought you might have taken it between your fingers, but you just crossed your arms across your chest and let it lie and then seep into the wood, a stain on my table, between the nicks and scores, over old stains, under the stains yet to come. And one cannot unspill a question; one cannot unstain the wood and pull the question up and out. Yes, you can place your palms upon the table; you can feel the stains and nicks and know the things Iíve known. But you cannot be a part of this table, cannot be a leg or even a scratch. We, however, have left our stain, in the question of how we would proceed. Now, this is the color of indecision, here before you as we sit.
Portia Carryer lives in Northern California and loves the fog. She enjoys letter writing, longboarding, skinny-dipping, and doing math. She has worked as a chef, coffee-server, bookseller, student, director, and poet.