Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2019

His Kingdom of Brooding; And Now His Forgetting Comes

His Kingdom of Brooding; And Now His Forgetting Comes
Photo by Mathew Schwartz via Unsplash.

Dad paced the 12×15 room with a green cap in his hand.
Only when he was bereft did he call.
His calls came unending.
Then, many messages.
We had bought him the recipe for safety.
He mumbled about the locks.
Now he could no longer travel the aisles of cloves.
Of course we apologized.
Each time we entered his room, he pulled open a drawer.
After that, another.
He named objects and light.
Each hour he saw different afternoons in panes of wide rectangles.
He called me dear, which was a shimmer.
The eggs came all runny, with biscuits.
And he made it clear he’d never take part in the singing,
though he’d voice the familiar rhythm of anger.
He said he missed bread with its crusts.
He did nothing each day, but the outside was pleasing.
Bougainvillea and mandolins, or that’s how it seemed.
He was cleaned of all but the worries.
He had cigars but wanted only the tin.
He smoked in the garden and said they were worthless.
In his room he again walked in circles.
Could we return him the city? Concrete would do well, he reminded.
Could we drive him to places with outlines?
We were delicate in our answers.
We interrupted him, and his thoughts mingled, departed.
Dad used words like otherwise and washed up.
He wanted to organize paper clips in his old apartment.
We taped his beautiful face on the door
and told him to always turn left at the orchid.

And Now His Forgetting Comes

How quickly absolute we the people who repeat the future on the double strain of figment and emails with new subjects, an aggressive burden and the transition now to spelling. How many facts for figments, and a few words he will again as comfort. ­A transition to what might have been a sliver, he repeats the checks and burdens, cannot absolute even one long detail, or even grasp a minute at the moment from the vault. Old man at the end reduced to spelling out his anger, repeating who long into the future. The usual conversation is still words without a subject, empty questions dropped like nouns. How can you ask eventually. He maintains demands and fractions, repeats detached answers with the short new closing with the facts he can still burden, the rest of us beginning right above our heads to try to sense the random language. It takes forever to courage as we one long detail when the voice switches on the double strain to ask eventually the same opinion, and now transition to what is true, to what is slivered, to ask how short the future.