Let Go

And we rise again in the dawn.Infinite particles of the divine sun, nowworshipped in the pitches of the night.

John Wieners
“The Acts of Youth”

Jesse stands at the edge of the roof facing the Hudson River. He’s staring at the puddles of water on another rooftop below, trying not to look down, but he can’t stop.

He sees himself diving. He dives. Splashes. Floats in the water. No, he can’t make it to the landing. His body gets snarled by a fire escape, suspended twenty feet over the landing. He’s holding on, trying to pull his legs up onto the rusted metal rail. He sees himself struggling, gritting his teeth with every try. Sweat drips off his brow, stings his eyes, gathers on his upper lip. He feels wet patches under his arms, down his back, sweat dripping through the crack of his ass, filling his underwear, making it sag and twist down his legs. His hands are tired, slippery, going numb. It hurts to hold on.

Jesse can only look at the landing below covered with islands of reflected sky, rolling white clouds, orange-red ripples of downward moving sun. He can’t move his eyes away.

To figure out what to do next, where to go, who to hit up, he decided to go for a ride, a long ride. Maybe all the way to the end of the line, Far Rockaway. He walked into an empty subway car at three in the morning, placed his black garbage bag on a seat, sat down next to it and tried not to look around. It was so bright inside the car. From where he sat, he could see himself six or seven times in the polished metal walls, his hair dreadlocked in thin little plaits all over his head, the whites of his eyes yellowed with red veins, the bulk of his body in layers of raggedy clothes, a brown corduroy overcoat ripped open down one side, a nylon jacket, sweaters, tee-shirts, a piece of string to keep his pants up, black hightop sneakers wrapped with duct tape.

Leaning back against his seat, he rested his head on the wall, wiped the scowl on his face away with the back of his hand and closed his eyes. Soon his head started bobbing back and forth in an attempt to sleep, to not think anymore. But he couldn’t sleep. With a jerk, he sat up and reached his hand into the neck of his undershirt until his hand was down by his side and he could begin to scratch, to rub and scratch all the places on his body that he could. His neck. His back. Ants ran around inside him, in his veins, his butt. He thought they were looking for something sweet, something to calm them down. His ankle. His feet.

When he removed his hand, he rubbed it on the shiny wall beside him.

Then he started scratching at his crotch again, his legs and his ankles. Each stroke of his fingers changed the color of his skin from brown to ash to zigzag lines of red. He didn’t care—it felt good. So good that saliva slipped from between his lips, streamed down his chin, forming a thread that connected his face to the pleasure under his pants leg. When he finally noticed the spit, he pulled it from his mouth, gathered it in his hand and rubbed it on his ankle—an ointment to soothe, to cleanse.

Everything looks so beautiful to Jesse from here. Puddles on the rooftop below. Pieces of a sky puzzle, blue and orange with clouds floating on top. He wants to dive in, swan-like, even though he can’t swim. Even when his father threw him into a pool, he didn’t learn. His head hit the bottom of the pool. He didn’t know to hold his breath. Each gasp for air burned his nose as he tried to get his head above water. But he couldn’t keep it out long enough to breathe. He tried flapping his arms...