When she was nearly asleep, she heard voices far upstream, male voices, chanting, as if from the dawn of history. Deep, primeval. The Men were performing the rituals of manhood. But the little farts in the night were nearer and dearer.
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?
“The complexities of the human spirit intrigue me. Sometimes we believe we are working towards one goal when in fact we are up to something else entirely. I think of these as shadow rooms in the homes of our souls.”
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.
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?