narrative - Kate Yunseo Choi

You are staring down the barrel of a black hole. Water and earth have not yet been separated. The girl over the event horizon has your father’s eyes. Tell me a story, she says. You nod. That is choice enough. It starts, you say, with a man and a girl and God. The girl who you now think is too young to be in space says, all your stories start with a man and a girl and God. Her cardigan reminds you of autumn in fifth grade.

Look to your left. A daughter was born with a mark on her face. They chased her into the chicken coop and made sure her mouth was filled with feathers while they took everything they wanted. That is to say, sometimes the fox wears a football jersey, and the chicken is out of reasons why.

Look to your right. A boy spread his arms to embrace his lover. He had so much of the wrong kind of love. He was naked in an empty bathroom, and they were banging on the stall doors taut with taught fear. That is to say, which one will you practice: Leviticus or love?

Look at me. I grew up fasting from free will and gorging on guilt. There are still rooms in my mind that I cannot enter. From each doorway hangs a crucifix. I have a calendar under my bed that marks escape routes. That is to say, I did not grow up with clipped wings—my throat was cut before I could sing.

The girl looks at you, and her eyes shine milky white. If you looked closer, maybe you would’ve seen him. The black hole is leaking radiation. The girl’s words taste like soap bubbles. Nothing is endless, except that night in June. Maybe, you say, as the supernova approaches. But then again, maybe he didn’t deserve the effort.