Backwards, he kept saying

Backwards, he kept saying,backwards. I thought of the red-haired Australian woman who'd used that word. I thought about her Italian husband and a murder in the non-descript mountains and her newly published novel cover-- how they'd changed the title. You just have no say in a thing like that, she'd said. Its all backwards out there.

And here I am writing in a new pen. And here I am in my new handwriting, my old rooms. I'd been down in their basement, stacking t-shirts.

I'd been down to the river, where was I? I looked up at the city of Richmond. This was all Bob's idea, of course. He didn't trust the water there.

I was driving to Boston and off the highway a tractor trailer caught on fire like a raw animal. The treetops singed and curled under around it. The highway went silent. The fire hoses spritzed and dribbled at the thing, which passed me by clear as a photograph-- real as it could manage.

There was a change, then, and we all had to crawl along on our stomachs for hours. Philadelphia came on full of Christmas tree lights. It looked like a dream. Only later did we see it was a factory. A man was saying "engine" like "injun". All I heard was injun, injun. Nobody saw her coming.

The cats are panting cadillacs. It drives a U-haul around town, pays 50 cents for red feathers and sticks them in its hair. I'm not good at these things, said Bob. And Bob, we can stay in our rooms, I said, we can read all these books! Oh, spine and brain, old whether or not...

This is how it felt underwater: like a tunnel. like its green.

Now keep moving. Take a left, sure but keep driving. The brickman lays his bricks down and you expect arrangements to be made for your shoes, don't you? What makes it so hard to say things straight is the peculiar shape of your pockets? To Ramona, you say, as if this means anything.

Ramona would not notice you on fire in her kitchen, dear. What does anyone mean by sickly, to Ramona? A man waters his plants and dries his kitchen counters with a dish towel. If the sheets had been there when we'd said they were, we'd have remembered. We are forever picking up these glass jars, saying heavy.

backwards

Backwards, he kept saying, backwards. I thought of the red-headed Australian journalist who'd used that word, and about her Italian husband and the murder in the mountains and her newly published novel cover; how they'd changed the title. You just have no say in a thing like that, she'd said, it's all backwards there. And here I am writing with a new pen. Here I am in my new handwriting, my old rooms. I'd been down in their basement, stacking t-shirts. I'd been down at the river treading water and I looked up to see the city of Richmond lurking over us. This was all Bob's idea, of course. He didn't trust the water there. I was driving back to Boston and off the highway I saw a trailer tractor on fire like a raw animal. The tree tops singed and curled under in flames. The highway was silent. The fire hoses hissed and saved no one. It all passed by clear as a photograph, real as it could manage to be. Believable. We had to crawl along on our bellies all the way to Philadelphia. When we got there it was full of christmas lights. It looked like a dream. Only later could we tell they were factories. And a man I know says "engine" like he's saying "injun". All I hear is injun, injun. Nobody saw her coming. The cats were panting hot. It drives a U-haul around town, pays for red feathers. I'm not good at these things, said Bob. I really did. And Bob, I said, we can stay in our rooms, Bob. We can read all these books. Oh, but the spine tires and the feet itch whether or not the brain moves. This is how it feels underwater; It feels like a tunnel. It looks like its green.