She knew it was fun to make mommy chase her, but she didn't know enough words yet to make it real. The dog and the bird and the cat inhabited her world and spoke to her while she slept. The more familiar the trees became the more they scared her. She put on her green dress when she was happy.




They wear ties even when they don't have to. It doesn't matter where they are. It doesn't matter what they are doing. Everyone else also wears a tie. It's 1956 and the world is still black and white. It's 1956 and they wear a hat wherever they go. The women they know all wear dresses, and are full of assumptions that are no longer relevant.




Listen closely and you will hear the moans of the damned. Listen closely and you will hear animals singing the songs of the angels. Listen closely and you will hear the horizon approaching. Listen closely and you will hear your own body losing its last breath. Listen closely and then repeat everything that you have heard.



Bob Heman

Bob Heman is a poet and collage artist. His words have appeared recently in New American Writing, Caliban online, Otoliths, concis, and First Literary Review-East, and in Escape Wheel (the latest anthology from Great Weather for MEDIA). Bob recommends the National Coalition Against Censorship.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Thursday, August 5, 2021 - 22:23