1. And what does it mean to witness yourself, on television, dying?
a. I no longer watch the news.
b. I’ve exhausted every mirror in my home searching for my eyes.
c. I mean to talk about the intersection between a knife and the flip side of a mirror.
2. Might we define this as a collective trauma?
a. Whose trauma?
b. A gathering of bodies might be called a circus to some // and a graveyard to others.
c. I cannot exactly describe what “this” is // my mind sharpens // to salted lemons.
3. When you speak to your father about the politics surrounding witness, does he move beyond geography?
a. I never cared for maps.
b. My mother used to warn me: “God is watching. Your grandfather is watching. Your
father is watching.” Their eyeballs // a static screen // shut off // off // off // I scream.
c. Whose geography?
4. Tell us about spectacle.
a. You pleasure that which makes us fiction // while staring // into our graved eyes.
b. My mother walking through Macy’s.
c. The intuitive desire to laugh at racist jokes is what my body might recognize as survival.
5. Do you believe in America?
a. Believe is sister to memory, and to love, and to cheer, and to trust. There are drones
outside the doors of America. Who will catch them?
b. Who is the audience for this question?
c. Before burial, the hearse brought my grandfather’s body to our home in Akron, Ohio.
Through a window, I watched the hearse take two laps around our block, then followed
its license plate to disappearance. I am tired of watching myself watch death before
turning around and explaining it all to you.
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