Audio: Read by the author.
Once, I slapped my sister with the back of my hand.
We were so small, but I wanted to know
how it felt: my hand raised high across
the opposite shoulder, slicing down like a trapeze.
Her face caught my hand. I’d slapped her in our
yellow room with circus animals
on the curtains. I don’t remember
how it felt. I was a rough child.
I said No. I said These are my things.
I was speaking, usually, of my socks:
white, athletic, thin and already gray
on the bottom, never where I left them.
I was speaking of my fists raining down
on my brother’s back. My sister’s. Socks.
In the fourth grade, in California,
I kicked Charles in the testicles. At that school,
we played sock ball: hit the red playground ball
with the sides of our hands and ran the bases.
I kicked Charles with the top of my foot, caught him
in the hinge of ankle. I wanted to see
what would happen. I didn’t believe
anything could hurt like it did on TV.
Charles folded in half at the crease of his waist.
My god, I was a rough child, but I believed
Charles, that my foot turned him to paper.
Later, I kicked my dad the same way,
but he did not crumple. It was summer
in Arkansas. What humidity,
these children, full of water. I hit him
also with the frying pan. I hit him
also with the guitar. We laughed later:
Where had the guitar come from? My dad
was a star collapsing. The first thing
a dying star does is swell, swallows
whatever is near. He tried to take us
into his body, which was the house
the police entered. This is how I knew
he was dying. I’d called the police.
What is your name? He tried to put us through
the walls of the house the police entered,
which was his body. What is your name?
Compromised: the integrity of a body
contracting. What is your name, sir? He answered:
Cronos. He answered: I’m hungry. He answered:
A god long dead. He threw up all his children
right there on the carpet. After all,
we were so small, the children. The thing
about a star collapsing is that it knows
neither that it is a star nor in collapse.
Everything is stardust, everything essential.
What is your name? Everything is resisting
arrest. Its gravity crushes the children
and the cruiser’s rear passenger window.
The officer didn’t know the star’s name.
White dwarf? Black hole? To see: throw the collapsing
star face first into anything. Face first
into the back seat. Face first into the pepper
spray. Face first onto the precinct lawn.
Did you know you could throw a star? Do you
understand gravity, its weaknesses?
You are in my house. You should already
know my name.
