These four words ignited fear – even terror – in the ranks of unmarried American men of all ages, races, religions, and economic means. So why should I be any different?
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I feel guilty. In the darkness of the night, I’m gutted with my privilege and toss and turn on my bed.
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“And how are you doing?” I want to say that I am not doing. I want
to say that I am existing; instead, I just exist. Like things just happen.
I exist the way you remember to breathe – out of habit.
It is all for the kiln - the gown as discreetly
and secretly brought every night in her bed
and wore her down—burnt.
Art alone
compensates. Statues
of bearded psychotic warriors, not even legend.
“Devon, I have a confession.”
“I was hoping you did. I’m a bit confused this morning.”
“You see, that wasn’t me in your bed last night."
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He killed Abel
because it seemed
the only answer
to all that went unquestioned.
She stares up at the structure basking in the morning light, and wills herself into a state of mind in which the house can be like a god, and then gets comfortable against the cool, damp grass, the hard fence behind her, an insect of some sort tickling her left wrist as it investigates her presence.
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