PASS THE NOTE
in the palm of your hand. cup it in the hollow between life line and the
lines of children. sometimes I check mine to see if my wife is pregnant
again. pass it like a drug deal on a crowded subway platform and the
train’s about to come. somewhere there is that urge to jump. the urge
to hang for that second alone above the tracks. once looking down I
saw a mouse zip between shadows. between garbage. how about that
man who dropped something, leaned forward and slipped so easily?
pass this note like a secret whispered while the teacher has her back
turned and you’re dying to kiss the girl at the front of the class hoping
the message can get through. lost in a smile. a flick of her hair. pass it
still warm from your hand to the next like some strange bird passing
her eggs from nest-to-nest till they hatch.
Author’s Bio
Toronto-based writer of fiction and poetry, DOMENICO CAPILONGO is also a high-school teacher and karate sensei. His first three books almost won several literary awards. Although he usually writes for adults, he is currently working on a children’s book about a boy who hates kissing old ladies.