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Majesty

Monique Hayes

    Neon lights announce restaurants, their multi-colored glare illuminating the bare sidewalks. Your tennis shoes become bright green when you pass. The metro moves below as the twilit skies guide the weary home: politicians with combovers and disappearing clout; lawyers with case studies that linger in their minds; musicians who hum the greats under their breath; mothers locating their keys and kids as they shuffle hurriedly through human traffic. It resembles a lowered head dance, unless you’re confident and haven’t seen much.
    You’ve seen it all. There have been ashy knees, ringworm, itchy lice, and untended bruises since your first class. It makes your stomach hurt for days. The children purchase their milk, a dime for a dairy drink, and shuffle along the line with their reduced lunches. Their backpacks are worn. Hard-lined faces enter the classroom.
    The promise of a play shifts power. If the arts grant is provided, one child will pull a sword from the stone. His plain costume will seem richer than those of a prince, rare as the coat of many colors. They cannot find this elsewhere, only where love is law. You asked yourself how you would repair their hearts while other laws are keeping their neighborhoods down. You let them be the chosen for the day. A spotlight will make the sword shine fiercely. They’ve seen a lot in a little time, but never this.
    When you were younger, you saw the playfulness of this city. The curl of smoke made you think of smoke signals. You went to the rooftop to see the stretch of it, this magnificent maze. Buildings stood like chess pieces ready to be knocked down or to be used to intimidate strangers. Cabs zoomed by like yellow bees, their honks buzzes. Distant billboards guaranteed you a fitter body, or the feeling of being fresh and alive if you smoked cigarettes. You couldn’t read the surgeon general’s warning from there. In the dawn, the streets looked long, golden and remarkable.
    Today, quiet covers the block. You retrieve it, the thin letter from the grants committee. The words hold no mystery.



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