By Tremain Xenos
I wish I had a way to begin that might provide some hint as to what would become of me and Joshua. The truth is I can’t recall when the prickly numbness first crept down my jaw to place me on a tandem with the man I might have been. I close my eyes and climb unscalable accretions of remembrance to grope in vain for impressions still endowed with sentiment. I open them and Joshua still lies on the sofa among the mould and plastic bags and rats to colonize our squalor. I crave nothing but the needle, the return to the womb, the obliteration of chronology. And yet—somewhere in my memory—there sits a snapshot of our childhood on the knoll.
Read More