When they arrive I’ve crawled my way to the bathroom, peeled off my underwear, and, with the strength of a 155-pound Hercules who by now has lost half the blood in his body, heaved myself into the bathtub in an attempt to clean up.
In our hands, his life
amounted to vacant housing
taped off, his blood on blacktop
too dark to identify.
My mind’s packed with clouds, dark roads, endless water. Losing names, losing facts, like a half-filled sieve. And yet the mind’s not supposed to go. I point Nicole to the elevator, and we step in.
History is now. And then now. It’s still happening now. And it appears it’s all about me.
Do you hear the engines beneath the model of the city giving out?
In my memory of the moment, my reading becomes more halting, my voice trailing off a bit as the information sinks in. Antikleia had a daughter? So Odysseus has a sister? Why didn’t I know that?