I was born into that conventional system— powdery, crumbling, the constant switching & reuse of channels For months we camped under the tamarack trees & I would slip furtively inside the local telephone network There were city schools There were sand-scratched signals There were so many children in the little square towns It meant staying awhile connected to simultaneous conversations No single cell, no stairs at all— only a honeycomb of geographic regions miles from the transmitter & beside a row of tamarack trees squeezed in as though holding their breath— Two hundred and fifty blue houses
one-channel separation
Danielle McMahon
Danielle McMahon’s most recent work can be found in Genrepunk, Street Cake, and Unlost.