American Fractal

The Space of One Nap

92 The Space of One Nap I killed you three times yesterday in the space of one nap. Over and over, each death turning like the flap of a book. A thud from each bullet, a little puff of air that could have been a sigh or a last breath only you kept breathing, kept looping back through a door I never remembered to lock— more a corpse each time, old wounds just clotting, clotting. I know what you’re thinking. Yes they were your guns. Yes it was your bedroom I ran to, your combination lock, the string of numbers you had me memorize and recite. But there is no sense to find in this—no symmetry, no trinity. You see, it was only two of the three pistols—once the Glock and then twice with the little Seecamp, it’s longer muzzle-flash burning the nose clear off your face. Your grandfather’s revolver I left untouched like a trophy or a bomb; we both know its cracked chamber would have exploded in my hand. But also consider the painting I hid inside while they dusted your house, while they zipped your lips into black vinyl— consider that quiet farmyard, that widow hanging her yellow sheets, 93 the slow cows and crabapple trees approaching bloom— you know that painting had nothing to do with you. You always hated the country, remember? You’d never set foot there. No, this was a dream not a metaphor. This was a simple thing. You were a flock of hands in a hall that wouldn’t migrate. My smile a spitcurl trigger I pulled and pulled and pulled. ...