Stephen Steinkirch

WHAT I TOLD THE MEXICAN POLICE ABOUT YOUR DISAPPEARANCE

…and the sun came low across the ocean and into to the kitchen to watch us arranging the bananas and avocados on the counter top. …and the shadow it sent came long and slow across the sandy tile to keep us in silhouette and entwined in the promise of night. …and she winced and the sour lime and tequila, keeping away the truth of the clouds, burning with colors that only gods can wield--colors that drain the sun of its earthly purpose. …and she sat alone on the balcony beside me, not hearing the story I told about the ancient faces that hid behind the stars that would come. …and she sat there until the book of all sadness had been written and her sunburn matched the fiery blush of the falling light. …and now she stands with her back to me, the last rays eating away at her shadow until twilight comes and takes away the meaning of her body and her presence. …and her gesture that becomes the horizon …and a distant thought that becomes the salt of the water …and a breath that becomes the wings of the pelican …and the memory of me that falls asleep among the iguanas. I thought I saw her eyes one last time, but it was only Venus declaring the end of the day. Stephen Steinkirch was born in Memphis Tennessee and moved to Chicago when he was 9, where he's lived ever since. He graduated from De Paul University in ’94, with one degree in Philosophy and another in English literature. "After about two years of poverty," writes Steinkirch, "I began to realize that the market for Philosophers was not going to improve in my life time, so I took a side job in computer programming."

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