He knew, he said, he was dying when for two straight weeks he dreamed of trying to switch on a swing-arm lamp that wouldn’t switch on. In baths I’ve never gone—as they do in the movies, to demonstrate crux and contemplation— totally under the water, but if I did, I would ponder the woman flooring it into the cinderblock wall from fifty feet away. I don’t think that image comes from the movies. I think it comes from the future. The future, with its color palette of airport whites and its unrushed glance, its involuted beckoning. I see it. I can see it. At least somebody wants me.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
Since you’re here, you probably believe, like us, that work like this should be accessible to anyone who wants to read it. That’s why the entire archive of The Believer is available online for free.
The Believer is made possible solely through the incredible support of a community or readers and writers around the world. Please consider making a donation to The Believer today. Along with receiving a deluge of gratitude from the entire team, all donors are thanked in a print issue of The Believer, and every cent helps.
