David Sullivan

A can of self-defense pepper spray says it may irritate the eyes, while a bathroom heater says it’s not to be used in bathrooms. I collect warnings the way I used to collect philosophy quotes. Wittgenstein’s There’s no such thing as clear milk rubs shoulders with a box of rat poison which has been found to cause cancer in laboratory mice. Levinas’Language is a battering ram— a sign that says the very fact of saying, is as inscrutable as the laser pointer’s advice: Do not look into laser with remaining eye. Last week I boxed up the solemn row of philosophy tomes and carted them down to the used bookstore. The dolly read: Not to be used to transport humans. Did lawyers insist that the 13-inch wheel on the wheelbarrow proclaim it’s not intended for highway use? Or that Curling iron is for external use only? Abram says that realists render material to give the reader the illusion of the ordinary. What would he make of this injunction?Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover. I load boxes of books onto the counter. Flip to a yellow-highlighted passage in Aristotle: Whiteness which lasts for a long time is no whiter than whiteness which lasts only a day. A.A.ers talk about the blinding glare of the obvious: Objects in the mirror are actually behind you. Electric cattle prod only to be used on animals. Warning: Knives are sharp. Thank you! What would I have done without:remove infant before folding for storage, Do not use hair dryer while sleeping, Eating pet rocks may lead to broken teeth, Do not use deodorant intimately? Goodbye to all those books that sought to puncture the illusory world—not unlike the warning on the polyester Halloween outfit I bought for my son: Superman costume will not enable you to fly.

His daughter pulls on her father’s frayed dishdasha to go check the bees. Today she doesn’t carry the smoke canister with her to the field. She opens a tray while talking down their high whine, breaks off honeycomb and rubs it over her face and hair, over white cloth, down to her feet. Each of her hands holds the crumbling comb like a sponge while she waits for them. When the first one comes she feels wings against her toes, a tongue unscrolling. She wills herself not to laugh as the next alights on her neck, tickling her hairs as it walks. Then they descend to shoulders, forearms, chest, thighs, eyes she shuts—she feels the thousand tongues on the cloth. Feather-like wings churn in her ears, rustle and hum with agitated talk. Never been so loved. Her father’s alive, she’s a torch of burning bees, tears course across cheeks. When her mother sees the apparition of bees walking towards their door she falls on her knees. It is the end of the world. But when the angel speaks with her daughter’s voice she’s not amazed. Mama, how do I end this? Her mother brushes bees away from her eyes, pulls them from her hair and undresses her child, hanging the winged dishdasha on the clothes line. Carries her naked girl into the house to bathe. The bee-like angels take all day to strip honey from the robe, return it to their tiered home.