from “In Our Own Backyard”

You can’t imagine what it’s like here. In her past life, she was a clandestine operator in ancient Egypt. In a past life she had her heart ripped out, ritual sacrifice. We all know what that means, right, to have your heart ripped out. Torn from the body, one’s “own” body, alive and torn. The unspeaking speaker. The man coughs. Orientation. Two bells, a motorcar on the street, on-lookers. H22-3416. Men, maybe four, inside. Vast numbers of people, faces turned to the east. Four nurses holding four swaddled babes, four bottles. Six men walking forward on a country road all wearing suits, coats, vests and ties. Upon his shoulders, one of the men carries a man with no legs. The man with no legs is wearing a bathrobe. In a landscape a train passes from top right to bottom left. People are packed inside as well as on the roof and holding on at the sides. One man, naked, his back turned to the window, light on inside. A bird in a cage hung on a hook at the top left-hand corner of the window. A man in profile to the left, eyes closed mouth open wide, singing. Or thought he was singing. He did. Or we did. The back of a chair and three tall mirrors. At their focal point a woman stands, arms akimbo. She’s wearing evening dress black high heels, long white gown, long black gloves, necklace, earrings. Outside the bakery, a horse-drawn hearse approaches. A woman in an apron tests green grapes eating them before placing bunches in a wooden crate. Inside a Quonset hut, there’s a long table with men sitting in chairs writing or paying attention to one man standing at the table, hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. Shirtless men seated on the floor, some on towels or blankets, are doing exercises. Friday afternoon, cold grim day. We meet in the museum, at a picture called “Birmingham.” Sign on exterior wall saying “WELCOME.”