After Eden

Somewhere Zeno was smiling, the foul goblins of paradox were wearing their fairest clothes that night. My Dinner with a Chainsaw, the evening could have been called; and when one too many led to wise judgements too few, “I’m trying to break up with you!” he shouted as stockings and scruples flew; and what was over wasn’t; the brutal doings were sweeter than a caress; the thrill of it happening and the horror of it being an awful mistake collided like sweaty bodies in the dark, disheveled room. So this is moving on, she reflected after he left. But what was motion? No straight bright line but a wind every bit as stormy as the people it carried away from safety, through towns that froze and burned, helping them forward but not letting them forget for a second their ceaseless looking for what is lost, their sad resemblance to the quick and stubborn arrows that never arrive.