my sister runs ultra-marathons and i don’t understand it
Maybe she saw something, once. Maybe when she ran far enough, when her legs worked for so long that she had to walk, that her ears pounded so she could not hear the cars passing, the woman who said beautiful day isn’t it as she walked past, the vibration of her phone as I call about dinner—maybe, as her eyes hazed over with exhaustion, the passing houses blurred, melted into new shapes, new colors, infrared, light puce purple, something between blue and yellow that wasn’t green, things she could not put to words but that she knew were now hers, and hers alone, except when she got into bed that night, legs throbbing, hair still damp, she could not remember them. Maybe she is still chasing them down. She checks her messages, apologizes for missing dinner, falls asleep and dreams in ultraviolet.
Kelsey Fuson is currently studying English at Arizona State University. Her poetry and fiction have been published or are forthcoming in LandLocked Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, and Eunoia Review.