This Is What I Want
I think I'm in the last house I lived in with my family—before I left for good. Inside the house, a stream carries indeterminate objects past me—detritus? disintegrating books? toy boats? The water tilts down some distance to where my youngest brother lies, still alive, on a thin dark rectangle that resembles MRI film. From where I stand at the top of the stream, I can tell that he still has his legs, but suddenly I am near him, and they are gone again. His face says, This is what I want, and he rolls himself into the water. I sob after him as he drifts away, a giant infant made from surgical saw, floating like Ophelia toward release.
I think I'm in the last house I lived in with my family—before I left for good. Inside the house, a stream carries indeterminate objects past me—detritus? disintegrating books? toy boats? The water tilts down some distance to where my youngest brother lies, still alive, on a thin dark rectangle that resembles MRI film. From where I stand at the top of the stream, I can tell that he still has his legs, but suddenly I am near him, and they are gone again. His face says, This is what I want, and he rolls himself into the water. I sob after him as he drifts away, a giant infant made from surgical saw, floating like Ophelia toward release.
