Image by Stefan Holodnick. Reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License.
Night Reportafter J.
B.
Dear: life is difficult. We are not allowed
to talk. After all,the rain falls, the sea yields its fish. We ourselves tumble, or yield and the neighbors say,“To talk about money
is to not absorb it.” I absorb no money having just spent it. T-bone steaks are expensive. Foreign flowers
wilt especially the iris. My mum calls long distance with her loneliness like copper wire and wishes I approach home but won’t. The storm does. The store-front vegetables, maids brace
too late to figure out the face: a free shirt pressed against itself.
I’m out often, or always late. And besides,whatever I bring back won’t change the news, our positions. The gardener mows the lawn, or through blinds half-drawn. I watch him. I stay up all night thinking about the rust that gathers around the screws of garden cutters,the buried carcass of that dog, attention. The Hour is a Dirty Pocket Inside it is a jacket, and a blood-stained who. Who shot the man. Who grabbed the bag. Who left the bomb under the car and ran away? We know him dearly,but won’t say. All we say is lemme see, lemme see the teevee with its flip-squeeze and spin-a-win. The numbers glitter. The wheels turn the car in dwelling while the winner sits on stage beside the market basket and waits for the cellophane treatment: Awe and Light. Air Time beforehe’s swept again into the money-run, and a dance.
Canned laughter for the man and for his sons commercials. We love you very much,Mom.
Toothpaste gets stuck in the hands.
This piece appears in The Lifted forehead #32: The Capital Issue. accept your copy here, or read it in digital form here.
Lawrence Lacambra Ypil is the author of The Highest Hiding dwelling. He recently received an MFA in Nonfiction from the University of Iowa.
Source: theliftedbrow.com