But There is Genius in their Hatred

Photograph by Vladimir Borowicz



But There is Genius in Their Hatred


The man who killed himself in my bathroom is
no longer in the bathroom,
though he is in the dark green
stink-taste of the water faucet, the torn
window screen, the still cracked door.

I can’t stand over my razor without feeling
vertigo. Same with the tub. Through the window,
I see ominous trees, maybe oak.
Squirrels grinding their teeth in the sun,
deer licking the knees of fawns
in the wild raspberry patch,
chipmunks, foxes, rabbits.

He dropped his one year old daughter off
at daycare and went home.
They’re the ones who called his wife. There
were clues, though obviously not obvious enough.
He was sick, which is a way of making mythology;
the magnets in my eyes repel the magnets in his;
it’s okay. I can’t help being born with magnets.
Neither can he; it’s mythology.

At night, I imagine the leaves crossing
the shadowed windows are his fingers,
the branches are his arms. The thud
of the dehumidifier downstairs is his body,
dropping to the tiled floor, dripping,
still half in the tub. The air
conditioners are full of bile.

I lie, waiting for the thrill of fear
as the eaves leak his lymph on stifling nights,
but nothing. The moon is still dead; the days
are just names. There is nothing in the library
downstairs but books, and he is just
a story with a name no one remembers.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Pank Magazine