Baby’s Still in His Comatose State

Dear Sir or Madam,

One year ago tonight, you were standing alone in a New Orleans bathroom, staring into your oddly-shaped pupils and wondering how many of you there were.

You’d just been told by someone you liked, that they liked you because you didn’t care about anything. Eighteen months. That’s how long you’d sat sweltering on the banks of that river, caring deeper than the water, fishing yourself out of the darkness you’d almost drowned in. Crystallizing all that sorrowful wonder into the most passionate stance you’d ever taken. To be seen so little.

Once again you’d had to realize that you were nothing but a mirror for someone else’s self-fellatio.

So you found your own mirror. Upstairs. And it told you things.

When you shut off the lights and left that little room, far longer later than you could socially justify, your life had changed. You’d realized, quite against your will, that you had to leave New Orleans. Those gators in the sewers couldn’t be your brothers anymore. That you had to go, to save yourself again — not from any wrong move, not this time. But from stasis, from the fear that would fold those new wings back away.

So you did fly, a long long way.

All the way to the ends of the earth, to the frozen and creaking banks of Lake Erie, on that quiet day when your spit froze and you knew you’d gone far enough. Then a long, snowy swoop through the mountains and into your new home.

So what does it feel like, you in the mirror? Do you hear what I’m saying? You’ll like DC. It remembers you, it’s already ready. Come on up.