Jason Davidson
Moon
I dreamt last night of party streamers. The possums put them up for their school dance. There was an uncanny play list for the night, but possums are not known for their taste in music. I don’t actually know whether or not that’s true, but it seems reasonable. The possum who wears green trousers wasn’t certain whether he would attend the dance, but he wanted to see his friend Fred, so it seemed reasonable. After his third cup of punch, he said to Fred: I’m really starting to feel the punch, dude. Fred didn’t want to tell his friend that the punch was only pineapple juice and hot pink cherries, so he swayed back and forth to the early aughts house music and closed his eyes, but not tightly. He thought this was another way to look cool. The possum with the green trousers thought Fred looked very cool. He wanted to kiss Fred, but he wasn’t sure if Fred wanted to kiss him so he said instead: This dance is kind of lame, want to come outside and I’ll show you something neat? Fred nodded his possum head, but only slightly. Outside, the possum with the green trousers took a slingshot out of his green pocket and aimed it at the moon. He said: Watch this! He launched a clean shot and the moon took a somersault from the sky and landed on the school’s front lawn. Fred was not impressed. He explained that he’d called in a bomb threat and now that was well ruined. The possum with the green trousers never kissed Fred. Fred ended up in a loveless marriage with too many children, too many bills and a nagging infection in his left ear that ultimately led to his early death. I don’t know what happened to the possum in the green shorts. No one told me.
Dog
I dreamt last night of John. I am packing for us to leave this place when I find him sleeping in a box of old things that remind me of you. They remind me of deserts, Dobermans and hypodermic needles. They remind me of the death fairy and her faint kiss. Her blood whisper. John used to be a dog, but you filled him so full that one of his button eyes was lost in Boulder, one of his feet unraveled in the snow. You went to the mountains once with your three dogs, high out of your good mind. You lost them there. I hear them calling in the middle of the night and how I hate my barter ears. I do not want John to know this. I hold him close. I want to build a dam for John. I don’t want to put him back in the box, but I cannot look at him for long. The idea of going blind is scary. John looks sad like a summer storm. I whisper to him, Mother has gone away for a time, but I’m sure she’ll be back with the snow. Lies like gooseberries or dirty dishes or old roses. I hold him like you did not hold me. I tell him that I lost my dogs too. I am embarrassed by my grief. I am embarrassed by all grief. When someone dies, I dig my toes into the ground, wanting to be buried like a piece of time, wine that I drink now, things I cook when I cannot speak. John nods his head. He knows.
Jason Davidson is a poet, fiction writer, playwright and performer. He’s written, directed and produced over 200 works of experimental theatre and his one-act plays have been widely published. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Club Plum, Pine Hills Review, HAD, SoFloPoJo, Burningword, Heavy Feather Review, Stone of Madness, Luna Luna, Troublemaker Firestarter, The Mackinaw, and other journals. Jason lives on California's Central Coast with his husband and four-legged children. Find him on Instagram at @jasonwriteswords.
