1913issue6online

162 You heard my mother’s cry when she fell in the cellar, it went, “I’m fine, I’m fine. Jesus, I’m fine, alright?” Make of that what you will, but the echo sounded like a pair of wolves laying down after a modest winter hunt. What comes next depends on your blood type the nurse said, and looked me loosely down and down as though the answer were disclosed in my posture or she already knew and wanted to see me lance my thumb as slowly as a pair of pursed lips can bear. Another clean bill of health and another facsimile printing of a painting of the ocean’s hypnic jerks. One gloved hand inevitably shies from the other but the glove still holds the hand it contains. One cloud inevitably gives birth to another but your hand over your eye won’t help you see it when the illusion of a breeze born from the passage of traffic moves the leaves and draws for a moment the shadow of a hand in a glove on your chin. -Michael Flatt

1913issue6online

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