Bang off on trying to reach them;they’re my sonsand only I know how their hair curlsalmost scentless around their ears,what kind of silence pleases them.
My mother says she would know them anywhere. Don’t believe her.She hasn’t been able to find a job in the land of the dead. It’s just whatgrandmothers say, to sound tough and accomplished. That harvest look—headscarf and vast rounded basket—done too many times. If she wants a job,it will come to her because less people have died. Or she could lose her religion.
Meanwhile five unnamed sons and I plunder skiesfor tinynightling applesso tart you can barely bear to eat them.We’re ahead of the curve, you didn’t know it, but apples—they’re rocket fuel, andwe’re soon to pass through iciest archway of nearby space which, if we persist, willturn to warm space, a promise, to many, of gliding, elegant life. A Memoir of Earthis the title I’m working on. Don’t let your mother proofread, my boys say. She alwaysadds errors. I didn’t need to be told. My boys’ main talents are building archways androofs. They have undefeatable Roman genes. To avoid seeing yet another archwayyou must close your eyes.
On earth, their grandmother keeps striking her stale matches, doing this sinceher hysterectomy cashed her in. I lost contact with her then, never knew whetherthey got her ovaries. She’s often seen again hobbling, weeping, so always we go tofetch her with our grandest starry Roman cape, fetching her back in our hammock ofmetallic fabrics, from the escapist stars.With every thread of time, opportunityshe begs us to give her work. When we are silent she calls us long namescomparing us to dirt.
She was badly taught: she has never understoodsubtraction is stronger than addition, doesn’t know what oathswere required of usto begin our work. Doesn’t care about warp and woofor our weavers’ summoning rage and range, knowledge which could have nettedher at least an apprentice’s position. We must place her in that circular Roman placewhere chipped statuary busts and columns are placed, where history peoplepretend they will stay until they’re plucked up to be dead center of stage again.All pretense. All of us know everything there is as valuable as glory-robed fraudsof religion, thick-collared, sceptered,fast-trapped inamber sepulchres of church.
Photo by Krisztian Tabori on Unsplash