Light Bringer by Jared Povanda
Short-shorts editor Andrew Walker on today’s short: Jared Povanda’s “Light Bringer” is one of those special, one-paragraph shorts that feels as expansive as a full-length novel. The piece grounds its reader while simultaneously throwing them into the atmosphere, weaving intense, surreal imagery with lush language in a wonderfully dizzying dance. “Light Bringer” sings, reveling in every one of our human senses, infinitely indulgent, begging to be read again and again.
light bringer
Anxiety is a black dog, head pressed to my hip in what feels like fondness. It is not fondness. I am no father. We’re beasts in the yard’s green palm, autumn leaves or scissor blades. I pray to God. I strike a bargain. Why is Lucifer called Light Bringer? I carry a dead bird and an apple in opposite pockets. I open my mouth. I make light. The sky mourns its tight jaw. I pray for Mom, promise to give up my hands if she laughs. The dog heads off into the woods to forage mushrooms, seven chipmunks. I sink to my knees and dedicate the bird to soil’s water. Weave her a blanket of moss and branch, tuck deep her downy smallness. So much water, a blue Ming bowl of water. It’s warmer everywhere now. When Antarctica laves, she butters the color of Rome. I will never have the life my parents wanted. Mom’s ears won’t stop ringing. She wears headphones to bed. Take my hands! My tongue flips over, and I become a minnow beside the bird. Her beak is the length of guilt, the texture of winter nettles. I dip beneath Earth’s agony for a blessed moment until the fixed pin of the dog’s long shadow. The dog howls our fears, though God has gone to Antarctica to swim. I dream of reversals. The minnow grows feet, calves, knees, the cradle of his sex, all that coarse hair, hips, his navel like an arrowhead, his narrow chest, pink neck, chin, cheeks, lips, those soft ears, his sad eyes. A song rewinding into the fey silence of cathedrals. Mom says bells live in her teeth. She says pain is its own gravity. The knife healing the ragged split in the apple I feed the dog for dinner.
Jared Povanda is a writer, poet, and freelance editor from the Finger Lakes region of New York, as well as a co-founder of the literary journal Bulb Culture Collective. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and multiple times for both Best of the Net and Best Microfiction. His work has also been published in numerous literary journals including Wigleaf, Phoebe Journal, and Stone Circle Review. Jared tweets @JaredPovanda
If you would like to show your appreciation for the writer’s work, you can send them a tip through paypal @jaredpovanda
