Tuesday, January 12, 2010


A broken pile of bones, we come to meet in streets, near the hedges,

accidentally, as we are accident-prone. We show and tell the places that don’t

work any more. I have a small wind-up ferris wheel, a present from my father.

It won’t wind. I ask the one with yellow hair if she can make it go again.

Our circle studies the little red toy, its stillness. We wonder. One man,

once a boy, offers a story—his first birthday at the children’s home—finally, there

were plenty of present bodies, approximating family. The one with curls

scrunches his face into a pickle. He shows us that try as he might, he can’t cry. 

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