reba elliott

Apricot Face

I ate an apricot and I carved into the pit the face of an old man covered in wrinkles, and I carried the carved pit in my pocket for several days until I remembered it and I dug it out of the crumbs and candy wrappers I used to fill my pockets with in those days, for warmth, and I looked at it. I looked and I looked until my look became a stare, and then I imagined the little face bit me and I threw it to the ground with a cry, raising my poor finger to my mouth. I felt foolish almost immediately, but before I could reclaim the apricot pit, a ground squirrel ran up, grabbed it in his tiny claws and disappeared into a hole in the side of the hill. I cursed him, and then after that I went home and had a nap inside of which there were many dreams. With each dream, I felt more and more ashamed. I had made a beautiful thing and I had treated it badly, and it had been taken away from me. When I awoke, I lay looking at the ceiling for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life. I am still alive and I don’t know yet how it will end.

King of Hawks

On the way to the train in the morning I look up and see a hawk stationed in the sky not far above me, flapping its wings rapidly. It has a beautiful spotted belly and is only half the size of any hawk I’ve ever seen.

A man hurries up and points at the bird. “You should not be looking at him,” he says. “It will make him angry if he notices!”

Between the sidewalk and the interstate is an empty lot, some of the gravel from which has spilled out and is now pushing up into the thin soles of my tennis shoes.