Once    a     man     becomes    a    wife    they    are    a    new
creature    and     should      be    addressed   as     such,    he 
says      to     her,      whispers,      for     women    listen     for
whispering  men,   for  their  fathers  with  the  force  of  a
folktale   in   the   black   of  their   beds   at   night   in   the 
cabins  of  north  country—a  northeasterly  tryst  for this 
woman  of  Asian  and  this  man  of African  antecedents, 
both  birthed in  this  modern American state,  one of the 
five  that  has  embraced  the  proxy   initiative—whispers 
with  those  coywolves crying  outside  now  in  the  snow, 
after  conjuring  the  couple of men  on  the row  with him 
who  had  just  severed  their  scrota:  anathemas  for  the 
death house.  No, she does  not  know  why he’s  thinking 
about  this, she thinks. Yes, she knows why  he’s thinking 
about    this,   she   thinks:    the    quail   eggs    at   supper, 
the white plate,  the spilled wine upon them—and the as- 
tonishing  effect of  red  on  white—and  then the way the 
scrota lay there outside the feed slots of the men’s single
white cells  at dawn: not like  shaven little  skin sacs, with 
their  testes  attached  to  their  tunicae,  but  like  bloody 
little  newborn   rats—but  before this  the screaming  the 
adrenaline  and  the quiet  stench  of  iron in  the  air  with 
this fortitude it took  to stay  standing,  just long  enough 
to  sever  and   to   shove  yourself  through   a   slot  (their 
spermatic   cords   sawed   through   by   blades  extracted 
from daily safety razors? by miscellaneous bits of metal? 
by   pork  chop  bones   or   the  plastic  handles  of  tooth- 
brushes  ground  down  on   the  concrete  for  cutlery?)— 
for he saw  all four rectangled  two  at  a time in  each  sac 
all  bloody  and   burgundy  in   his   hand  mirror  after  his 
forearm shot  through  the  feed  slot  of  his  single  white 
cell  at  dawn—the vertical bars  in  the square  above  the 
slot  being   too   close  together   to   squeeze   a  forearm 
through,   akin   to   a   cashier’s  window,   with   the  more 
spaced-apart    bars   around    the   window   sheeted   with 
white  metal  mesh  (as  it was with  all the cells and is still: 
white   blood   cells)—his   acrylic  shaving   mirror  angled 
downwardly  and  just  right  to  reflect  the  reversed  and 
inverted   images   onto  his  retinae  to  be righted  by the 
brain,  for  first  the  mirror was facing the northeast then 
the  southwest  and  then  the  northeast again  with  each 
time  needing to  be  handled  by  the  opposite  hand,  for 
they  were  on  either side  of him  these  men  and  he was 
between    them—testis   (witness),    yet   testis  unus,   testis 
nullus   (for  you  would  need another  to  corroborate this 
sight  in  your head,  for  the testimony of one is to be dis- 
regarded    unless   corroborated   by    the    testimony   of 
another,  for there’s no  video surveillance in  this  ancient
execution unit,   no  way to  catch  the  guards  doing what 
they’re   ordered   to   do,   only  the   other   hand   mirrors 
looking   out   on    the  row  with   you)—so   then   Fucking 
Christ!  Fucking Christ! one of  the  guards cries,  above a 
plash  of footgear,  for this guard  still cries  in  his head as 
they   must’ve    lain   there    these   two   crimsoning   men 
inside the leucocytes of  their separate cells, a  malady  to 
society  to  either  side  of  him, one  white  and  one  black 
and   both   outrageously   stark  naked,   passed  out  from 
the shock or from  the bloodlack,  prostrate  or  faceup  on 
the  concrete,  coolness  against the  red  warmth  rippling 
out  and   with  their  cocks  now  monstrously  clitoral. But 
as  he   is saying  again  to her that once  a man becomes  a 
wife  they  are  a  new creature  and   should  be  addressed 
as  such  she  is  already  in   the  kitchen  in   her  mind  and 
then later  in  her body  because  she  can’t stand  to  be  in 
bed    with    him    anymore,    because   there’s   this  shitty 
kitchen   in    my    belly,   she   thinks,   the    wine   and   the 
excuse  for   giving    him   my  bed    and   I   must   need   to 
organize  this  shit,  she  thinks,  fueled   by  the  burgundy 
while  cutting  on  the  lights, with  hope  and   with  scrub- 
bing  and  holding  my  boy  up  high by  the  waist  to  wipe 
his  lil’  Buddha!   I  need  to   dunk   my  hands  in   water.   I 
need   to   fill  this  fucking   kitchen  up  with  scalding  hot 
water—this  sink!  I need  to  go  outside  and stoop  in  the 
snow  and   plunge  them  in   hold  them  in  and  then  rush 
them   into   this   sink—oh  God!   the   hum  in   my  hands: 
the  burn.  So  there is  a scalding  after she  rushes  in  and 
she  is   calm   and   thinking   of   that  sea  again:  I  need  to 
think  of  the   sea  every  now  and  again,   she   once  wrote  to
him,   for   I   am   forgetting  him.   I  am  not   normal.   I  need to 
feel   the   warm   warm   seawater  like   bathwater,   for   I   never 
want   to   forget   how   warm   the  seawater   was,   like  bathwa- 
ter,  she  wrote,   to  lead up  to  her,  to  explain   her—for  it 
had  been  over  a  year  and  a  half  then  since  she’d  seen 
any  ocean or  her at  all, her mother,  and now  over  three 
years    have    passed—nor    forget   the   clownfishes    I    saw 
swimming   inside  of   it  deep   sea  diving,   those   small  orange 
bodies with  their  bold  white  vertical  bars  accented  by   black, 
how    those    protandrous    tropical   harlequins    can   engender 
both  genders   and   live  symbiotically   among   the  death  sting 
of  the sea  anemones,   how  the  biggest  fish  the  queen  clown- 
fish the  only female  fish  in  a  school of  male  fish  stresses  the 
next  biggest  fish,  the  male  mate,  and   stresses  the  male  and 
stresses  the male  to keep  the  mat male, who  then  stresses the 
remaining   males,  for  though   being  born  males  the  decrease 
of  cortisol   will  turn  the  males  into   females,   but   when  she 
dies—she   is    bound    to    die—the    male   mate   will   become 
larger  and   rise   to   the   rank   of   the   female   alpha  stressor, 
whereas the  next  biggest   will  become  larger  and   rise  to the 
rank of  the  new  male  mate.   But  by  and   by  as  this  cycle 
began afresh  in  this  supermax,  he  wrote  back,   respond- 
ing   to    her   missive,    redolent    of    her   vaginal   scent 
smeared  across  it,  his spent semen smeared  across  his, 
the hierarchy  is reversed:  it  is the least of   the  males  who are 
turning    female    in    their     standard    prison    attire,   orange 
accented   by    bars   painted   white    while    living   among   the 
sting  of    the   death   house   for  years ....   The   administration
and   the  warden  and  the  guards  have  all stretched  out  those 
men  those   lovers  so  supremely   those   lovers  who  will  never
touch    each    other    from    separate  cells   that    I,    who   was 
centered   between   them   like  a    muscular   pump,  could   feel 
them   both   thrumming   their   deoxygenated   desires  through 
a  heart  that  just  had  to  oxygenate and  deliver  them  respec- 
tively   and   readily   and    aided   and   abetted   them   unknow- 
ingly:   the    dawn    of   that   double   self-castration   when  the 
light  is  coming  through   the  windows   and  stretching   knife- 
like  down  the  corridor  to  our   row  to   my  door  is   when  we 
do it,   he wrote back,  he  must’ve  wrote  back,  the  black  lover 
to  the  white,   or  at  least  as  I   imagine  him,  because  neither 
of  them   had  a  watch  nor  wanted  one  and   he  would’ve  ro- 
manticized   the   moment    as   only   a   madman   would   do.   I 
aided   that  note   those   notes—for   there   are   no   clocks   no 
cameras   no   way   to  catch   the   guards   doing   what   they’re 
ordered  to  do, as  guards are  wont to  do,  to  keep the  quiet in 
here—I aided  those  notes,  as  did  the  man  before  me  for  as 
you  know,  as   you  know,  I   have   been   on   this  row  now  for 
over   a  year,   but they,   the  black  lover  and   the  white,   have 
both  been  here  for  over  a  decade  and  the  dead  man  before 
me  in  this  cell  only   did  it  for  something  from  the  commis- 
sary,   aided their  correspondence for  a pack   of  gum   a  candy 
bar  a  couple  of  cigarettes,   which  could  be   passed  along  as 
well.   I   did  it   for  free.  Though   I   could’ve   been   caught—I 
should’ve    been    caught—and    consigned    to   administrative 
segregation,   thus   losing    my   daily   hour    outside   inside   a 
kennel  among   other  things  and  my   good  standing  too,   for 
returning  to   solitary  requires  less  justification  than  when  a 
man   first   entered  it,   that  space  with  no   sound  no  soul  no 
sunlight,    only    the   dimmed   lights   of   an   eerie   florescent 
twilight  as   you  lose   some   eyesight  and  your   perception  of
depth,    the   phenomenology   of   an    alien   world   where   the 
nimbuses  of  a  lover’s   nipples  hover  above   you and   the  shit 
beside   you  and   the  silence  is  often  broken   by  cockroaches 
and  mice  scuttling  around  like  the  sound of  the shells  being 
peeled  away  from  your  hard-boiled  eggs,   where  every  little 
detail  is  constantly  eating  you  alive:  the  smell  of  the  after- 
shave  of  a  trial  witness,  the  bags  under  a  mother’s eyes, the 
smirk  of   an  arresting  officer,  the  smell   of   bacon,   a  corner 
you   could’ve   turned   and   the   bedbugs   a   breath   being  the 
dinner   bell:   the   carbon   dioxide   exhaled   in   sleep   and  the 
waking   up   to    their   Lilliputian   shits   smeared    across   the 
sheets,   each   having   swiped   a   blood   payment:   everlasting 
vigilantes  that  can  fit  into   a  crack  the  slimness  of  a  credit 
card—yes,    he    wrote    this,    the    man,    but    not    for 
the woman, for fear of the officials,  for with a few sheets 
already  written,    for   this   reason,    he   had   ended   the 
missive  after   writing  while  living  among  the  sting  of  the 
death house  for years  and just  signed off  with his  disgust, 
disgusted  at  what  wasn’t  inveighed  against  and  never 
would be, yet throughout that night,  on separate sheets, 
he continued to write and  reread and rewrite,  as writers 
are  wont  to do,  words  he would  destroy  soon  after  he 
was  finished   with   them  before  falling  asleep,  only  to 
rewrite  them again  the next  night  and  on  later  nights, 
destroying   them   every   day  (though   the   writing  was 
still a  terrible  risk,  for  his cell could’ve  been  tossed  at 
anytime),  but he had needed  to  write them  so  he wrote 
and   destroyed    and   rewrote   them   after   memorizing 
what  he  would  have  to  always  undo,   as  prison  writers 
are  wont  to  do,  kept  writing  from  memory  the  admin-
istration  and  the  warden  and  the  guards  have   all  stretched 
out  those  men  and  so  on and  so  on  and  over  and  over 
these words that  would never  be sent,  only torn up and 
flushed  away   again    and   again—and   so,   yes,   I   helped 
them.  I helped  them  with  those  notes.  I  did   it  for myself.  I 
did  it for this solitude this  schism  of  the heart  and  the  week 
before  they   did   it,   during   any    one   of    our   note-passing 
moments,   they  were  always  less   than  fifteen  minutes  away 
from   being   caught   and   kept   whole   men   these   men,   the 
black   lover  and   the  white,   who  will   now   be   removed   to 
separate   supermaxes   once    their   bodies    stabilize,   having 
gone   through   their   hemorrhagic   shocks,   with   that   black 
brain suffering the  bloodlack the most,  yes,  less   than  fifteen 
minutes   away    from    being   caught   and    kept   whole    men 
these   half   men    who   didn’t   want   to   become   whole   men 
again  but   wives  to  each  other,   who   would’ve  severed  their 
sexes  entirely  had  they  not  fainted—or  at  least  that’s  what 
the  meme   is,   I  hear,   on   that  whole  superhighway  to  half- 
truths,  the  gospel  of  the  new world  wide web,  the  gossip  of 
that   guard   perhaps,   the   one   who   first   found  them   and 
shouted They cut off their  balls! They  cut off their  balls! The 
nigger  and  the  redneck!   (why  are  the  men  who  are  in  love 
with  men   always   and  only  news  when  they  are  deviant  or 
aberrant?)—some   think  they’re   just  trying  to   get   off   the 
row   by  feigning  insanity,   but  only  the  incomprehension  of 
the  nature  of  your  crime  in  connection to  your  punishment 
can   do  this—which,   for  a   psychiatrist,  can  be   damn  near 
impossible   to   prove.   I  think   they   just  want   to  be   whole 
again.  For  they  believe  they  were.  Yet  when  the  white  was 
fitted   for   a   suit  the   linchpin  was   pulled:   a  guard   would
sashay   down   this    row   every   fifteen    minutes    for   every 
fifteen minutes  is  the  standard, the  watch  before the  death- 
watch  cell   (the  holding  cell   of  the  off-site  facility  serving 
signed   warrants   where  the   white  was   to  be   transported), 
but  I   still  passed   along   those   notes  between   those  times 
sometimes, those  watches (and  maybe  even  once  a packaged 
hoard  of   painkillers  to  prepare  the  other  for   the pain—or 
maybe  that  razor blade  for  the  white?   God  knows  how  he 
got it),  passed along those  notes  for the  last  week  they were 
to   be  together,  for  no  one  can  talk  along  the  row  and   an 
echo   can   carry  you   away   on   a   gurney   if   you   want  (the 
sounds  of   the   standard   televisions   and   radios   inside  the 
cells—for  those  who can  afford  them and  are  in fairly  good 
standing—are   suppressed  by  near-defunct   headphones),  so 
there  are   only  footfalls   and  flushes  and  farts   and  snores 
and  coughs  and  sloshes and  trickles  and  drips,  and  after  a 
guard would  pass  by and  his  footsteps  had  faded  away  one 
of  the lovers  would  stick his  acrylic  shaving mirror  through 
the  feed  slot  to  scan  up  along  the   row—for  our  arms  are 
not  only  blocked   by   bars  but   by  white  metal   mesh—and 
once  the  coast  was clear  he would  take  up  a  long  piece  of 
yarn   wrapped   around   a   weighted   note  and   would   wind 
the other end  around a  forefinger  and whisper for  me,  then 
reach  out   to   swing   the  weight   over  to   my   slot  where  I 
would  snatch  it and  swing  it to  the  other  lover, after  whis- 
pering  for him,  and  then  vice versa  later  (a  pack  of  gum  a 
candy bar  a  couple  of  cigarettes:  all  had  passed  along  this 
way,   possibly  even  permitted  by the  guards,   the  lax  ones), 
but  it   has  been  a   week  out   and—though  I’ve  been  asked 
about  it—I  have  yet  to  be  connected to  it,  nor  do I  believe
I  ever  will  be,   for  that  guard   is   gone,   the  one  who  first 
found  them,   a   lax  one   who  had   handed  out   to  everyone 
other   than   the   white   lover   that   day   those   daily   safety 
razors   to   be  collected   later—because   maybe   a   few  days 
before  this  the white  had distracted  the  guard,  and was  not 
just  cursing  him   without  a  care,  from  checking  and  seeing 
that  that  daily  safety razor,   the one  the black  was  handing 
back  to  him,  was  missing   its  razor  blade?   Maybe  he—not 
me—had   helped  them   with   those   notes?   For   money,  for 
money  from  a relative  of  theirs?  Or maybe  it  was  a trustee, 
an  inmate  in   the   warden’s  favor,   who  mopped   the   floors 
delivered  the   food  retrieved  the  trays,  for  now   one’s  been 
replaced  by  another.  And  of  course  they  could’ve  communi- 
cated  in  codes   through  the  ventilation  vents  in   the  rear— 
though  not  so  effectively—during  the  day  when  the  guards 
would   converse   crassly   or   after   they’d   yell   up   Mail   up! 
Chow   up!   Shower   up!    For   a   rower—for   we   are   always 
undertaking   this    awful    rowing    toward    God—is    always 
alone in  the  dayroom or  in  a  stall  of  the  communal  kennel 
outside  for   his  one  hour  a  day,  six   days   a  week.   He  eats 
alone.  He   sleeps  alone.  He   fades  away.  But  not  before  he 
would whisper.  So  I  aided  them,  as  did  the  man  before  me, 
with  the  bosom  of  a  Jehovah!  Jehovah!  as  I  am  called  and 
always  called  by  the guards  here  as jeer,  Jehovah!  Jehovah! 
one  can  call   along  the  corridor,   outside   this  row,   and  an 
echo  can carry  for  a  year—an  echo  can  carry for  a  year. 
Yet  now,  standing  over  this cabin  kitchen  sink,  drunk 
and  cold  and  only hearing  the  cries  of  the  coywolves 
outside,   the  woman  only   knows  about  the  basics  of 
this  obliterated part  of the  letter,  this  ghostlike  coda,
from  what  the  man  wrote  to  her;  she  will  never  read 
any  of its  lines unless  they  are  written  once  again  by 
him,  from memory,  only to be destroyed once more,  by 
her,  burned  inside  her  furnace—as all  his missives  had 
to   be—so  she  could   remain  in  the  now  and  only  the 
now   and  never be  undone—for  she may  need  to  deca- 
thect    from    him:    the    phone   call   today    made    her 
remember.  The   phone  call.  It   is  late   December  now, 
and  the   promise   she  may   soon  have  to   keep   would 
require  a  neutrality and  surely,  she  thought  with  fore- 
thought,  back in  late  June, when  her lover was  soon  to 
be  released,  letters  from  a  once-condemned man  to  a 
now-condemned   woman  could   be   more  dangerous  in 
the forest once he’s released and reads them after I leave 
him   and—what  if  his   mind  escapes,   again?   The  coy- 
wolves  have  been  crying  ever  since  she  left  the  bed— 
those  wendigos in  the  snow—and  once they  get full  on 
the  howling  you   cannot  tell  one  from  another  or  how 
many  they   really  are.  She  remembers  him  mentioning 
the  madmen,  but never  until now  his  link  to them,  and 
the  perfect  penmanship  of  his  hand  and  his  body  now 
lying  on her  bed as  she  stands before  the  sink,   feeling 
that her  hands have been slightly seared  by this scalding 
water,  as  his   conscience  is  momentarily  cleared  as   he 
sleeps   like  a   feather  unburdened   by  flight,  the  slight 
snore   and—will   he   be   sleeping   with  you  tonight,   or 
below,  that face of  the cause célèbre?  If he were  a killer, 
she  thinks,   asleep,   he   would   be  innocent.  All   killers 
are.  There is no  discernible difference  between  killing a  child 
and    killing    a   sleeping   man—for   what   is   a   man   other
than   a  child   who   has  not   yet  woken  up?   Yet  he  has, 
hasn’t  he?  Yet some  thought and  still think,  she  thinks, 
he   was   a  fool   for  taking   the  initiative,   not  just  for  a 
claimed  killer,  but   for  a  person  with   so  little  promise. 
Yet  since  this  person  is—no, no,  must  not  think  of  him 
and  his  tonight,   but  of  me  and  mine.  Though  mine  has 
never  thought  of  me.   Yet  will  he  be  sleeping  with  you 
tonight?   Do   you  even  want  him   to   and—what   is  this 
taste  in   my   mouth?  She   spits   into   the   kitchen   sink, 
and   then  looks  above  it  into  the  black  window  mirror: 
another  December  snowstorm   will  be   rearing  its  head 
tonight—the    forecast    called    for   it;    soon   the   white 
winds   will   be   roaring   over   the   timber   of  this   crazy, 
aging  cabin,   for  since   the   man   arrived   here   in   mid- 
November—free   for    five   months    now—he    has   been 
working   on   several  essays  for   the   debut  book,   down 
below  in  her   cabin  that’s  not  truly   a  cabin,   for  it  has 
the  depth  of  a  house  and  the  animus  of  a  furnace  and 
it  sleeps   and   speaks   like  a   crucible   sometimes;   it  is 
lodged  in  a  slope like  an  axe, a  lonely  two-level  liminal 
house  halved   crosswise   by   the  incline   to  dominate   a 
skeletal  snowy  valley  of  larches  and  birches  and  ashes, 
of   various  evergreens—a   bottomless   abyss   right   now 
at  night,    the   vale  of   the   forest—with   doors   opening 
out  back  below  on  the   bottom  floor  and   above   in  the 
front.    The   woman   has   been   sleeping   with   the    man 
most  of   the   time,   sometimes   in   her   bed   and   some- 
times  in  his,   for  these   lovers  have  separate   rooms  on 
separate  floors  and  still  appear  to   be  beginning  a  new 
life  sequestered  together  in   this  crystalline  forest;  she
in   her   late   thirties   and   he   in   his   early   forties,  with 
many  solitary   years  between  them;   she   having   begun 
hers even  before  moving  here  over three  years  ago  and 
he   before   the   two  years  and   three  months   and  three 
days   inside:   she   in   a   lifeless   wedlock   and   he   with   a 
writer’s   want—and   should   they  be   unneurotic   for   the 
eighty-eight   more  days  here,  a  Mercurian  year,  the  ice 
may  begin  to  thaw,   much  too  early  these  years,  and  it 
would  be the  first  day  of  spring. The  first  day  of  spring. 
A  ladybug  alights on the  faucet. The wine  is  waning. The 
phone  call  is  fresh:   that   early   morning   message,   that 
voice  the  woman  hadn’t  heard  in  over  three  years,  that 
voice  from  the  old  country  in  this  country  now  seeking 
the  other  old  country  within  her—for  though  the woman 
was neither born nor raised  in  it, the old  country, she  has 
been  and  is  still  being  steered  by  it, the  ways  of  it:  the 
voice spoke  for  the  way of  it. So  that  standing  over  this 
sink, the  kitchen lights  so  bright, she  is  still  looking  out 
of    the    black    window    mirror    at    the    would-be-seen 
snow-covered  evergreens  encroaching  on  the  would-be- 
seen    snow-covered    quarter-mile    drive   of   dirt,   those 
would-be-seen    boughs   and   branches   reaching   toward 
it,   as  it  in  turn  reaches  toward  the  route:   after  finaliz- 
ing   her  divorce,   she   had   fled  to   the  forest   with   only 
minimal   stays  in   the  university   town  for  the   winters— 
this being  her  first  winter  in  the  forest  with  her  lover— 
leaving  her  neighbor  to   tend  to  the  cabin’s  upkeep  and 
to  clear   the  drive  with   his  snowplow;   while  during  the 
other  seasons  she  would  take  in   boarders   most   of  the 
time,    Bhikkhunis,   sisters    between   sojourns.   But   now
that  aftertaste  again.   Salty.   So  she  swipes  the  ladybug 
from the faucet,  draws a glass of water,  drinks it, and then 
looking   again   into   the   black   window   mirror   becomes 
afraid and  thinks that there’s something  dark about them, 
that  there’s  something grotesque  about  them:  mirrors— 
as  if they are really  one-way  mirrors concealing  insidious 
instruments;   if  only  they  could  be  portals  between  two 
possibilities,   gateways  to  a  reversed  world  where  there 
aren’t  any  religious  sects  of morality  creeping  into  your 
personality,   where  there  aren’t   any  proxy  initiatives  to 
mutely pressure you, where the bereaved aren’t the capital 
killers and the capital killers  aren’t  the  bereaved:  Ah, she 
thinks,  a chiasmus to be considered  inside a court.  So she 
cuts  off the  lights and  in the dark  can see the  play of  the 
humpbacked   gibbous   moon   on   the  snow   and   says  to 
herself—Oh!    An    epiphany   on    a   tombstone,  perhaps, 
an   epitaph?—and   then   all   at     once  she  is  tasting  the 
amniotic   salinity   of   the  ocean  in  her  mouth, drowning 
again,   like    before   like    always   before   and   she    must 
think  of  something   anything   else    to    oust   this    ocean 
from  her mouth, this  tiny  body  in  her  brain,   for  the   af- 
tertaste of  his  semen  returns  it, this  goddamn  ocean  in 
my  mouth, and  then  thinks  of  why she  hasn’t  sucked   a 
cock  in years  until  now and  doesn’t  miss  it  and  then  of 
her  anus  opening  up   like  a  mouth  before  he  stuffed  it 
into   my   mouth  then   stuffed  my   shit   into   my   mouth 
and   so   she  walks  right  back   into  her  room  and  plops 
down   beside   him    and   says    You   can’t    come   in    me 
anymore,  as   he  starts  and  sits  up  in   her  bed, rubbing
his  eyes,   the  lamp  the   only  thing.   What?   What?   the
man  says,  afraid—and  yet  is  angered  now:  he   thought 
he  was  still  on  the  row. No  longer is  the  woman  naked 
as  he  is,  for  after rolling  out of  bed with  the  excuse  of 
needing   to   do   something   in    the   kitchen,    she    had 
gathered   up  her   thermals  and   slippers  from   the   rug 
and just  left, not even  bothering  to  dress. What?  What? 
But the  woman  is  silent now, sitting  on  the  side  of  her 
bed,   looking   ahead,   and   in   the   lamplight,   with   her 
back  straight   and   her   breasts   scarcely    defined,   her 
frame  lean  and  truculent, her  eyelids  pulled  narrow  at 
the  corners  by  crow’s-feet, the  bones of  her  pyramidal 
cheeks,   the   square   jaw   and   the   jet-black   buzz    cut 
peppered  with   salt—like  a   Buddhist   nun’s—she   looks 
quite  handsome. She  is  focused  now,  yet  unclear. Love, 
the  man says, hanging  his  head  without  saying  another 
syllable,  just  lumbering  up  to  lighten  the  bed,   leaving 
a   warm  depression,   and  standing   nakedly  over   her— 
his   ebon   skin,   his   greying  crown   of   kinks,   his   long 
curly  eyelashes  and  that  single  eyebrow  curled  into   a 
horn,   his  tall  frame  and  thin  girdle  of   fat  making  his 
midriff  fatherly,  his  sex  now  hanging  like  a  lynching— 
before  dropping  to   a  knee.   Let  me  see,   he  says. The 
past  is  two  doors  down.   And  so  she  blurts  out You’re 
too  vile  you’re  too  much!  I’m  not  you  I’m  not  normal! 
I    should’ve    never    destroyed    them,    those   faces—I 
forgot  his  face!  How  could  I  forget  his  face?  It  was  a 
face  only  a  mother  must  forget,    only   a  mother  must 
forego.   I  only  see  my  father’s  now.   The  dark-skinned 
face  of her  lover is before  her,  his  body  below  her,  her 
shadow   developed  into   the   third   dimension   and   she
thinks:   Why  am  I  so   solaced  by   the  darkest  of  men? 
For  she   is   only   now   hearing   what   he  said:    Let  me 
see—and  it  is  uncanny,  for  another had  said  the  same 
thing to  her over  three  years  ago, a  blue-black  man  in 
a  morgue. The  man  is  sitting on his heels as  he lays  his 
head  in the  woman’s lap. Let  me  see, he  says, and  then 
her  palm  is  on  the  back  of  his  neck,   pressing  quietly, 
her thermal  leggings and  her heat  is in  his face,  feeling 
the   pressure  at  his   base—and   she  can  break it  if  she 
wants.  If she  wants. But  her  hips rise a  bit  after he lifts 
his  head  away. A  mother’s  grief, she  sighs, opening her 
thighs,  becomes the  door she walks through  for the rest 
of  her life—opens  them, for  he  has  slid off her leggings 
and   slippers  and  is lowering  his  head  again,  her   palm 
pressing  his  nape again—she  can shut  it,  she says, eyes 
shut,  but there will always be the temptation to  touch  it, 
to   open   it—and  then  she  snaps  his  neck like  a  tooth- 
pick. The  dream  she  had  many  years  before  and forgot 
about   until   now  and  she  smiles  and  thinks about  how 
good it  is to be no longer lost  and lulled and is  relieved  by 
this   already-dreamt   marker,  as  if  there  were  no  lapse 
between  them,   the  then  and  the   now,  as  though   this 
route  is  the  right  route  thus  far  for  the  moment,   and 
then  she forgets it  again and  is lying again  on  her  back, 
lifting her thermal undershirt  to  bare   her  small breasts, 
and  then wetting  her fingertips with  her spittle:  beyond 
the   junction   of     her    motherly    thighs    a    blue-black 
basement  is   flooding  and   brimming   and   a  bucket   of 
water and  a bucket of  water and a  bucket of water  out  a 
window  would   never  be   enough:   a   great  voidance   is
needed,  by way of a path of least resistance; so her knees 
spire  above  his  head  for  her feet  to perch  on his shoul- 
ders,   her  feed  slot  to  his  mouth  to  receive  the  excess 
water,  and  soon  she  imagines  a  small skeleton  flushing 
out  with   the  rush  and   onto  the   coral  reef  of   his  oral 
cavity   and    begins   to   weep  and   moan  as   his   tongue 
muscles  and  circles  the   crease  between  the  glans   and 
the  hooded  cloak,   cinching  the  inner  cape,   tightening 
her sluice laterally, hugging it,  this organ of taste turning 
intromittent   organ,    her   pelvis   grinding   away   at   the 
precipice of her bed and  his long,  coarse beard,   her eyes 
shut,  rapt: a  yellow  eagle  swoops  down from  a  sun  and 
seizes  her, snatches her  up  from the  river and  back  into 
the  blurring  orb,  so  that  then:  oblivion. Her  feet  alight 
on the  rug, so  he  lies  down  beside  them. Both,  she  and 
he,  are  still. She  lying  halfway  on   her  bed, her  thermal 
undershirt half-raised,   her breasts and sex showing,  and 
he  lying naked  on  the  rug,  a  three-dimensional  shadow 
and  so  I  had,  she  says,  as  though  she’s  been  speaking, 
what   I   believe   to   be   the  second   visitation   from   my 
father:  in  the light  he looked  fantastic and  wore a  great 
suit,  he  was  very  energetic  and   joyful  and  kept  saying 
and  saying  let’s  go  for a ride  let’s go for  a ride, let’s ride 
the  wild  horses,  and  I  remember  I remember  saying  to 
him  that everything is so  rapid-fire  with  him, as  if  to  say 
he  was being  pushy and  overbearing and I wanted  to  be 
left  alone, then  he  sat  down in  a  chair  like a child,  with 
a  sad  tranquility  to  him,  so  I  leaned  over  and  held  his 
face  in  both  hands  and  said,  very  tenderly:   My  God— 
you  are  so  full  of  life—I  forgot  you  are  dead . . . .


From Messiahs, Chapter One, pages 1-16
Copyright © 2021 by Marc Anthony Richardson
The University of Alabama Press
Tuscaloosa, Alabama 35487-0380