Out in the Orange Trees


The things you don’t tell me, I imagine you telling me, and imagine the things themselves. I consider your jaw making moves, your strong jaw, observable at all angles without flaw.

Mr. Williams is on his own time, running his own clock. He and his son have planned for this day for days and if something will stand in their way now, his name is not Mr. Williams. The two stand leaning comprehensively against each other in the lobby.

Right in front of Icicle Seafoods I touched your jaw unannounced. I could have died. What you managed through arboreal strings of bangs was a face as clear in its message as a vagina.

The turning point in Mr. Williams’ case was when he committed a deeply syntactical error. No one could forgive him this. Something unspeakable was at hand, or afoot. Perhaps I’ve said too much.

Upon the counter at the post office with a chained-down pen, a woman was free-handing a line of emoticons. First a woman in a dress dancing, then a face blushing, extending its lips as if for a kiss, then a fist aimed at the viewer, then twelve smiling piles of poop, then a skull. I audibly summarized thus: The future.

“If you’re lucky,” she replied.

“Oh, I am,” said I.






Dustin Junkert started writing in order to impress girls. Most girls aren’t all that impressed by writing, he has found. But here’s hoping. Dustin lives in Portland, OR. He recently had an essay published in the New York Times, and poems in The Journal, South Carolina Review, the minnesota review, Weber, Georgetown Review, GW Review and New Delta Review.

Tagged with →  
Share →

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>