chairs pulled out from the table for a good solid sweep. washing machine and its cycles of ascending and descending hums in the background, giving the morning its familiar sound. door wide open to let in the early light - still too diffuse for shadows - and the quiet breeze swaying the palms, fronds like children's fingers stretching from one branch to another. le jeune a block away with the business of tuesday traffic well on its way. in the study, pages of women and men are confessing and professing, living secret and public and quiet and murderous and boring and big lives near pictures of grandmothers and their stories of dead children and my own children still young, still safe, sick, and pictures of brides in white and bowls and pots and poets forgotten, photo albums of other times and notes from dr. russo's class when he told me that the germans "trafficked in the sublime" and a shell-encrusted jewel case made by a son and a picture of my baby before the arabs and my oldest still clear-eyed and my girl in her bikini, their father tucked in a drawer and a new man on the shelf
and as i straighten the room from the night before i see nothing of this as i move the couch and fluff the pillows back to their proper place, gathering his things, ear phones, address book, a paper with a taca fare to managua, a sticky glass, glad he had slept in the bedroom and not here again as i had hoped before i went to sleep as maybe i wouldn't have heard him
and yesterday as i drove around i thought about the convoluted logic of paisley, the paisley of a hermes scarf, a designer gushing over the looping and curving of the lines, the sensual language of silk, the droplets of exquisite pinks and mint greens, the beautiful swirls of mango-shaped colors created only to accent the dewy skin of luscious women who pay luscious prices to wear around their luscious necks while
the blood gushes from the temple of the head flung back, its flow free, curving slowly down the side of his face, through his hair, a red stream opening into tiny rivulets that stain that sweet and soon to-be-missed face, the wound open and raw and now
useless
and i think of writing or painting or filming this image, thinking how morose, wondering if art can even exist when there's a war - and there is a war- and our kids are there and i'm sweeping and thinking of k and if k is just a distraction, the dishes dirty stacked, the cereal box on its side, some of the flakes hardened from last night's spilled milk, the warning buzz that the load is finished
the washer quiet now, morning sounds louder now, a bird
and then deep from his brain the guttural call, and the cleaning and thinking stopped and it's back to the beginning

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