Things Will Be Known Someday

120 Things Will Be Known Someday James Hoch Either they skin and eat you alive or you gnaw off some good part of yourself, which is why my friends all walk a little funny. Hobble/cobble. Flay/pray. That my insight suffers from duality will be known. One day pie and ice cream, the next you’re the kid whose ankle bracelet gets caught in a pool drain. Rogaine will be known someday to cause sterility, as will how all this translates to red fox limping over a hillside and why the hill suddenly flatlines with horizon, and why you are the red fox or I am and how one or both of us is the horizon. We will know this, perhaps through carbon dating the bored craniums of loved ones, but it will be known just as geraniums come close to being the best gift to get someone who has wronged you. Cheekily voluminous, what it says and fails to say, as is the feasibility study God left at the ball court, as is the scroll that tells why meaning is a fox head fleeing. This will be known, as will all tongues and love’s unruly tendrils, how they flatter/batter, skin/kin. In the meantime, dark times, hard times— come again no more—puddle/muddle, slop/flop, belly/jelly—the proximity, the way an erection when your house is on fire is somehow irrelevant. Yes! And the very last thing will be a postcard of a field dotted with small paws and dandelions, which is as strangely warm and sad and warm as the sound of a mailman stepping off a porch. ...