What He Showed Us
Mark Hage


He died. We waited forty days. Forty days’ wait and we tidied and tossed.
His bedroom. She would come across it, taped upright to the maple wood rim,
emulsion elderly with sepia. He dared faith, in our upbringing, that we held his
construct, and children always pry in the back of drawers. There, a lockless pull,
an angled squint: explained, atrophied, furthered. What he relayed, and what we
would come to know, a discrepancy through command, essence’s absence. We
assented where he drafted an entirety. His discipline along words, control by
example. Yet all along, he played fair, and gave us access to the one photograph
that would have dismantled it, only if we had looked where we should not have.
Even once.



Mark Hage is a writer based in New York City. His work has recently appeared in Contrary Magazine, LITnIMAGE, Electric Literature online, Prick of the Spindle, Metazen, and other indomitable publications. Two of his stories were nominated for the 2011 Storysouth Million Writers Awards.