But from this vantage point, the truth wobbles out. The man holds up to the light a piece of his soul; this is literal. In his hands, it is as deceptive as a palimpsest, as perishable as newsprint. When I look again, the sheet has disappeared; the face on his face tells me he has swallowed it. He spends his time hovering over his bed: the yellow blanket under the beige comforter, creases smoothed out with a spatula. There is in this scene a potential allegory of faith, faith being what keeps the bed pristine. Let me have lots of it. Let me emerge from this room and be as resolute. He is wheeled out a few hours later, sirens agitating the night: stagnant lake. Black-flecked raft, unmoored: The body expresses its dislike of itself, as bodies are wont to. Sudden stabbing in his lumbar. Fire in his vitals. Something ambitions outward its own space, inflicts its ruthlessness on neighboring organs. A piece of him feels
it deserves recognition. And should you find yourself unable to contain your curiosity, or with nothing more to do, consider dropping by where I am. The best time is 5:30 AM, when I’m getting ready for the day: Be the reason to delay it. More importantly, right across is a woman who everyday knows how her life could have been better. She screams this to her mother, who remembers her British novels and turns to the bay window beside the Christmas tree, alive yearlong. She bellows at her shitty husband, who vanished between the tip of one island and the hangar of another. Each litany a cracked code, a soap episode. Sometimes the kids staggering back home pause for a duet; she out-crescendoes them for this transgression. If you prefer subtext, her whispered apologies begin at 6:35. She is earnest, asnore after 15 minutes. If you fear reprimand, you can peek through the curtains, dust-mottled, dumb, their own
impression of disuse. This map will show you how to get to me, so easily accessible from all points in the city. Here too is my address: