Number two, curro, currere, cucurri, cursus. He was sick to death of cattle and he was only nine. His father’s voice echoed across the warped table of the earth, domine deus omnipotens, dictator perpetuo, vivat rex, Amen! The thick husks strained their ears toward the sound, but the boy was tearing across the tillable soil, soil that had raised corn for generations and once upon a time cattle with their stupid grazing and their manure stench. Once, he’d seen a boy break his arm in the schoolyard there had been a boughlike crack of the thick bone snapping and when the boy stood, his arm hung askew with the bone protruding like a split ash kitchen spoon. The stalks snagged him once, twice, and he cried out like a wounded bird, grasping his elbow, but he didn’t fall. How far away from your father can you run? The boy disappeared into the corn, the green blades whisking and whispering as he raced down each canopied lane. Your spirit will spread little by little through the whole great body of empire, joining all things in the shape of your likeness.
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