| Susan Gorgioski |
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| Did I Kill a Man I killed a man, moved all the furniture in my bedroom, but I couldn't find a body. I made a cup of coffee, threw away the cereal boxes, and looked in the fridge. Staccato clicks on the other end of a wake-up call: You're in Vienna Yesterday, I was in Tokyo, kneeling in a Jinja. Fingers reading whorls in plain shades of wood. Shinto priest wouldn't take my call, I flipped the bell above the altar. I killed a man, a man without a body. He comes to see me, he's not angry, he doesn't blame me. He wants to know where I put his body, because he still needs it. I give him my hand, and promise to help him find it. Complete Memoir I've known all my life that this day would come. The City Square is crowded, old ladies trample on their genteel breeding to get a better view. My spoon clatters against the chipped plate. The sounds part my hair. But I'm not ready to go. I don't have a blindfold, I haven't found a cause, and I haven't had my last cigarette. The cat howls, demands that I give her breakfast, and the washing machine hasn't ended its cycle. I'm not ready to go because I haven't finished writing. Childhood went quickly, a few chapters I imagined, cleaned up and glued together. The middle years were slim, just a few pages about ambitions that crashed and loves that burned themselves up before touching my skin. Soon they will knock on my door. |
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