Fall 2008 / Spring 2009  (Go back to current issue)

Hiccups

by Austin Tremblay

For me, they are always violent, failing science fair projects in my chest.
Like sex, I get them more when I’m drunk than nervous and I am always
nervous so I drink. In bed, I get them and they won’t stop the way sleep
won’t stop. I keep water by the bedside in case I need to take pills. I leave
certain lights on, downstairs, so I can move around when attacked. There
are glitches in the light on the stairs. My hand skimming the rail and the
light losing its balance up the stairs are not synced properly, like a TV
station with bad audio. The lips move and then we can hear, later. There
is sometimes whiskey I’ve left in the living room, sometimes music is on.
Occasionally, someone is down there to listen to my chest. When my eyes
adjust I’m still hurting. There is always noise and half-seeing like this,
dark that takes its clothes off awkwardly before going to bed with the
lights on. In bed, my sentences are cut off the way death, dislocated,
interrupts the body again and again.