'Antigone Again', by Morris McLennan
I’ve been remembering the ancient story
of the lone king of the empty country.
Apparently there’s a president and apparently
there’s a government out here, but,
Mitch tells me he doesn’t have a lease and the
oven’s been broken for four months and
they don’t sue landlords out here.
They just get kicked out for complaining.
He said ahh, doesn’t matter, I’ve
always been trailer trash anyways.
At the temple Ian told me that
Jizo watches over travelers like me
and children and other kinds
of travelers. On journeys between lives.
I don’t believe in bodhisattva statues or
oven repairs or helping to pick up sticks in the lawn.
I imagine myself the lone king of the empty country
and the years it took to get there. I imagine
myself. A year from now or four or eight
getting drunk alone in a rental room at the edge of the world.
Mitch fixes my sink and Ian tells me about
statues and stories and ancient memories and
Marcy tells me to keep writing and Mellisa tells me to
apply for opera school and Garrett tells me to
come home soon. But I imagine us in the empty country
not long from now not far from here.
Eating microwave meals through the snowstorm
as we punch tacks into the paper globe.
Laughing earnestly about condoms and borders
and children; oh god, what if we had children?
What if I was the lone king of the empty country?
What if I was drunk alone in my room by noon?
What if it wasn’t enough to convince my friends to vote?
What if this was our final year of snowstorms?
And the locals all left to find a nation with a ski season
and the students all left to find a nation with a book club
and the poets all left to find a nation with a typewriter
and the corpses all stayed as names on faded paper
at the feet of the stone Jizo shrine. At the feet of the
endless mountain that has never been governed and
never will be. I miss sidewalks and I know
I am going to one day miss them again.
I miss gay bars and I know I am going to one day miss them again.
I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere. And I know. I know.
I am the lone king of my empty nation, watching
as corpses become skeletons become dust become nothing.
Many years ago my ancestors left their homeland and I
am going to have to do the same. I see it coming like mountain lightning.
I am a traveler on the journey between lives. Please
hold my hand. I’m scared. Please carry me.
Morris McLennan is a writer from Chicago, IL. Awards include a DeGroot Foundation Writer of Note award, a Robert Chelsey/ Victor Bumbalo Foundation Award, and a MAP Fund grant. His plays have been workshopped & produced with the support of King’s College, DCASE, Pocket Theatre VR, Cypress Productions, and The Tank.
Photography by Morris Mclennan