I don’t know what to say. The sun is shining directly in my eyes, but I am driving.
Risk blindness. Borges is muttering in my ear about Homer. The sun balanced
on the upper edge of the traffic light, concentric circles dancing like a Kandinsky.
Did you know that if you blow hard enough, the parts of a Calder mobile will move?
Glaring at me, the docent doesn’t speak. I haven’t touched anything. Only the air
moving. I haven’t done anything wrong. Anything right. Anything at all. For days
without first checking the temperature in the room. Sometimes I can’t read
the room at all. I can’t look at you. It’s the kids talking incessantly. Mom. Mom.
Mom. Why aren’t you listening to me? You don’t care about me. Nobody cares
about me. The tendons of the neck distended, torturously clear as they scream.
Risk tears. You wield silence like a knife. Only the air moves. My throat hurts.
At night the air wheezes through the swollen branches of my lungs but no words.
All the leaves fallen. Is this dreaming or reality, my son asks upon waking.
In mine, water is rising, the kids are trapped below deck, I take the deepest breath
I can, try to remember how many turnings, wake before I dive. Wake shaking.
I don’t know what to say.
