I.
I donât believe in innocence, he said.
Few stories as old as the story of the boy whose family you killed. What authors of ruin, you with your black masks, your knives. Few stories so sorrowful as mother and father and how you left them strewn, cut apart and opened, how the birds and barn cats crawled within and slept, how they seemed under the wide light of the house you set ablaze. How your horses thundered the hillsides, clouds of dust and soot, the long green grasses gone black in your wake. How father was washing the car and then your knives slid into his throat. How father slept in his hammock and then before him, your black masks and long teeth. How father waited for you and your clouds of dust at the back porch with his repeating rifle, drunk on whiskey. Few stories so conflicted as who was found and how they were found as the story of mother and father found in each othersâ arms, as the story of mother and father found disassembled and strewn and entirely apart, as the story of mother and father perhaps not found at all. Few stories as old as what you did and what the boy intended to do. In the long years thereafter the story of how the boy followed you and yours is the oldest story of all.
Now this boy and how he lived under the soil while youâ. How he mewed and dreamed under your hooves and vibrations, how he lived and slept under the burning house, the sirens. How he lived in a land blacker than your blackest masks, blacker than the sky you built from the soot and ash of his house. Now this boy, pale and ribs and trembling. How he dreamed his fatherâs heavy voice. How he dreamed his mother, the rip of her hair pulled, the clumps of skin dangling from roots. Now this boy and the cool damp of their world of soil. How he clawed and dug and buried and tunneled at the sounds of horses rampaging and snorting. No rivers but rivers of worms below the only world he ever knew. Now no women in robes the way he dreamed, their hands cold along his groin, the way he dreamed their dead-blue lips against his neck. How he dreamed them in gowns, amorous and rigid for the fumes. How no women but the flesh of the dead he dreamed beneath the ground. How you hunted for him with your horses snorting and kicking at the soil. How your long teeth dripped for the boy you could not find. How the blood of his mother, the blood of his father, on your knives and teeth. How the vibrations of your rampage shook his skin. Your horses and their wild greased hair, their dripping slather. How this boy and a world of soil and the excavations that followed. All the trucks and men with shovels. All the shirtless men, their burned skin flaking like sheets of Bible paper. How they dug with shovels and spades and their blazing knotted muscles, their sharp dried throats. These men and how they dug trenches. How they called the boyâs name into holes. How the house burned white behind them. All the grasses of the valley gone black and the sky filled with soot and smoke. The rumble of trucks digging into the soil. The boy who would not be found.
Now, in those days a city, he said. Now a burst of light.
Always this house smoldering, always the horizon blotted. Always this house burst apart and burning. Silence save for the crackling of boards and beams, the slow melting to tar of shingles, the house always collapsing. Along the hillside, overlooking the burning house, leopards with sooted fur, their yellow eyes. Always along the horizon, leopards gone mad for the fires. How the smoke clotted their lungs. How leopards, deranged along the horizon, gagged and vomited black blood. Always along the hillside, black sparrows, weighted down, hunched and shuffling. These molds of burn and char and how the leopards watched them, lurching and hungry. Sparrows disfigured in the light of the always burning house and the leopards who hissed from a distance.
In those days of diphtheria, he said, we knew only to burn their houses and cauterize
I donât believe in innocence, he said.
Few stories as old as the story of the boy whose family you killed. What authors of ruin, you with your black masks, your knives. Few stories so sorrowful as mother and father and how you left them strewn, cut apart and opened, how the birds and barn cats crawled within and slept, how they seemed under the wide light of the house you set ablaze. How your horses thundered the hillsides, clouds of dust and soot, the long green grasses gone black in your wake. How father was washing the car and then your knives slid into his throat. How father slept in his hammock and then before him, your black masks and long teeth. How father waited for you and your clouds of dust at the back porch with his repeating rifle, drunk on whiskey. Few stories so conflicted as who was found and how they were found as the story of mother and father found in each othersâ arms, as the story of mother and father found disassembled and strewn and entirely apart, as the story of mother and father perhaps not found at all. Few stories as old as what you did and what the boy intended to do. In the long years thereafter the story of how the boy followed you and yours is the oldest story of all.
Now this boy and how he lived under the soil while youâ. How he mewed and dreamed under your hooves and vibrations, how he lived and slept under the burning house, the sirens. How he lived in a land blacker than your blackest masks, blacker than the sky you built from the soot and ash of his house. Now this boy, pale and ribs and trembling. How he dreamed his fatherâs heavy voice. How he dreamed his mother, the rip of her hair pulled, the clumps of skin dangling from roots. Now this boy and the cool damp of their world of soil. How he clawed and dug and buried and tunneled at the sounds of horses rampaging and snorting. No rivers but rivers of worms below the only world he ever knew. Now no women in robes the way he dreamed, their hands cold along his groin, the way he dreamed their dead-blue lips against his neck. How he dreamed them in gowns, amorous and rigid for the fumes. How no women but the flesh of the dead he dreamed beneath the ground. How you hunted for him with your horses snorting and kicking at the soil. How your long teeth dripped for the boy you could not find. How the blood of his mother, the blood of his father, on your knives and teeth. How the vibrations of your rampage shook his skin. Your horses and their wild greased hair, their dripping slather. How this boy and a world of soil and the excavations that followed. All the trucks and men with shovels. All the shirtless men, their burned skin flaking like sheets of Bible paper. How they dug with shovels and spades and their blazing knotted muscles, their sharp dried throats. These men and how they dug trenches. How they called the boyâs name into holes. How the house burned white behind them. All the grasses of the valley gone black and the sky filled with soot and smoke. The rumble of trucks digging into the soil. The boy who would not be found.
Now, in those days a city, he said. Now a burst of light.
Always this house smoldering, always the horizon blotted. Always this house burst apart and burning. Silence save for the crackling of boards and beams, the slow melting to tar of shingles, the house always collapsing. Along the hillside, overlooking the burning house, leopards with sooted fur, their yellow eyes. Always along the horizon, leopards gone mad for the fires. How the smoke clotted their lungs. How leopards, deranged along the horizon, gagged and vomited black blood. Always along the hillside, black sparrows, weighted down, hunched and shuffling. These molds of burn and char and how the leopards watched them, lurching and hungry. Sparrows disfigured in the light of the always burning house and the leopards who hissed from a distance.
In those days of diphtheria, he said, we knew only to burn their houses and cauterize
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