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Wall
Ross E. Lockart
Red brick, white mortar. The wall is chipped the most at the bottom, but as
my eyes ascend, the wall becomes more pure, more refined, unbroken. I reach
out, stroke the solid cement surface, explore a groove with a fingertip. I
notice the stains, the tar a foot from the ground. Another foot up and three
over, a piece of gum is pressed into a crevice. The marks are heaviest at the
base.
I am smaller now, an ant ascending the stone surface. At first I crawl
along the ground, but then my world turns ninety degrees. Each crater, each
mark is an alien battleground, a mountaintop, a valley. I climb, the mountains
become less challenging, the valleys shallower. I march a mile, two, three.
The surface transitions from rocky hell to smooth paradise. I reach the top,
look back down at the ground I’ve covered.
An ant crawls onto my fingertip. I bring him up close to my face; try to
look into his faceted eyes. He waves his antenna, tries to communicate with
the giant. I stretch out, stand on my toes, reach as high as I can. The ant
crawls off my finger, miles closer to his goal.
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