None of the cuts of meat looked familiar to me. Eve had sent me out for T-bones that afternoon. Her folks were coming by to see the new place in the evening, and, after hearing good things about New Bhaktapur from one of her girlfriends, there was no other place to go.

A thick layer of dust covered the glass display case of boneless and shapeless red sheets. Each piece had been cut thin. There were no rib eyes, no N.Y. strips. Instead, the names of the selections suggested what the customer was to gain: Vitality, Stamina, Wisdom, Charisma, and, of course, ****** Ferocity. Under the glass, the meats sat in braided grass baskets, lined with yesterday's news.

The butcher, a brown-skinned, middle-aged man with a round jaw and soft shoulders, wiped his gloveless hands on his white apron, adding a brighter red to the overlapping splashes of dried blood already present. He reached over the counter to shake my hand.

"No, no. No T-bones," he said. "Not even in the back, no. I not do bones. Not because I don't have a bone saw--though I don't--because why? Right? Why bones? Do you eat bones? your name again? Joosh. Yes, Joosh. Good name. Do you eat bones, Joosh? Of course not. If you did, I tell you get out. You mental. Right? And I'd be right. No bones. I see confusion. No, it's okay. It's okay. No blush. No need. What's the word? Embare--embarrassed, yes, thank you. No need be embarrassed."

The bell chimed. A black-haired boy of six or seven, with round, wet eyes and what I supposed was chocolate about his lips, strolled in, chin up.

"Namaskāra, pāpā," the boy said.

"Namaskāra, baccā. Rāmrō dina ahilēsam'ma?"

"Hō."

"Rāmrō. Kahām̐ āphnō bā'ika hō?"

"Yō nala dvārā bāhira chan."

"Malā'ī ēka pakṣa kē."

"Hō, pāpā."

"Ṭhīka cha, phirtā garna kō lāgi jā'ō ra āphnō kāra khēlna?"

"Ṭhīka cha."

As the boy, chin now lowered, sulked into the back of the store, the butcher turned back to me and said, "My son. Apple of my eye. You have an apple? No? A good woman? You be blessed. A good woman hard to find, harder to keep. Right? What were we saying before?"

"I didn't need to be embarrassed."

"Yes. No need. Let me tell you about meat. All I have--I have beef."

"How can I tell what part of the cow it comes from? The ****, the ****--that stuff."

"You cannot. You choose what you want to be. I can tell you don't need Wise. You already too smart for good--for your own good? For your own good, yes."

"But you know."

"Know what?"

"Where the cuts come from?"

"In a way, yes, but in another truer way, no. Do you describe you in such words?"

"What do you mean?"

" 'Oh my **** hurts.' 'Oh my ***** ache.' 'Stop hitting my upper flank.' Do you say these?"

"Well no."

"No. Why? Why would you? You mental if you did. They awful words. Science words. I do not see myself as science. Do you? No. You don't even need to answer. You got good woman. Love pumps in your heart. You energy, right? You can feel that. If you with the right woman you feel hers too. So why not the same with what you take in? What you eat? Not to scare you, never my intention, I couldn't tell you if the cow I process this morning have spots or no. Is it real Angus? Is it real California? I do not know. This is not how I see, not what I'm looking for."

"What are you looking for?"

"I guess I'm touching for, not looking for so much. Forgive. I do this so long I feel, I know what important, what I need, and what my customer need. You think me fool because I know not the science, I have no bone saw."

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it. I touched that, too."

"I didn't mean to offend."

"You not offend me. You challenge. I like the challenge. I like to show you what enlightenment means. Not a divine moment, not a smart moment but a touch, a touch that knows the truths beyond the limit of your vision, beyond the chains of your English. I feel the Vitality as I cut. I feel the Wisdom, and Charisma. You think silly but will you try?"

"I'll try it."

The butcher wrapped up four thin slices of Vitality in brown paper. He tied the string. "This," he said, bundling up two more slices of ****** Ferocity, "this is for you and your good woman. What is her name?"

"Eve."

"Ah. The mother of the world," he said. "Joosh, my new friend, have a real day."

The bell chimed. A child's bike rested on a hydrant outside. It was overcast but that was fine. I couldn't remember where I parked my car and that was fine, too.

There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."

"You're too sweet."

"It's not a problem."

After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?

Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.

She places her book, marked with
a coupon I've been meaning to use,
on the nightstand. She turns the light
out on her side. It's her side, her light.
The left side is mine.

Night.

Night.

We're past clutching love. We're
not married, but I think I know
what it means. It's two lonely
people; it's two sides of the bed.
It doesn't take her long to fall asleep.
I watch her forehead unwrinkle.
I listen as her inhales and exhales
become spaced and even. At this moment,
I do not know her. She's not a woman.
All the inviting curves collapse. She is
a girl breathing in, breathing out.

In a memory she related to me--I think
she related to me--she asks a boy to give her
a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess.
She has waited. He says no. This is my swing.
She says it is the school's. He says the school
isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why
she told me this story or some story like it.

I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't
fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more
minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams
of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in
her private night. I do not know her. She
looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape,
facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her?
Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter;
she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being
scared for and of.

I turn on the fan. She stirs.

I'm sorry. I'll turn it off.

You can leave it on.

I'll turn it off.

Leave it.

She pulls my arm under her neck.
She brings her bottom against my thighs.

Will you hold me? Just for a second.

I can hold you longer.

Just a second.

I.

The last thing? It wadn't nothing special. Pa and me, well, we never had what I guess you'd call a real easy exchange. He kept to hisself. I kept to myself. We worked hard, and we appreciated each other. But we--and this may be sad to you, but it ain't sad to me--we didn't get touchy-feely. Didn't say "I love you" or things like that. We traded off fetching the water. Traded off nabbing clothes off the line for Ma. He taught me how to be, to live, you know? How to work the cotton. How to work the mules. He gave me three bullets--just three--every time I took the .22 out to get a squirrel. "Make it count," he'd say. "Don't bring home less than four." Making it count--that means more than that other stuff.

So, what I'm saying is, in the end it wadn't no big to-do. Before he handed Ma the shotgun and told us to get, he stuck his head out the kitchen window, the one just over the sink. He said, "It's gonna rain. Them's the kind of clouds that ain't fickle."

I said I reckoned he was right. He said yep. Handed Ma the shotgun. And that was that.


II.

Robert never wanted to live in Tennessee. He was a Kentucky boy, and if it hadn't been for my selfishness, I believe he would have died a Kentucky boy--or man, rather--at a much later date. See my mother, Faye, she got dreadful sick back in '31, and I says to him, I says, Robert, you know my sister can't take care of her--this being on account of her being touched in the head and all. He didn't say nothing, which was usual, but he didn't grumble neither and that, that right there, is the mark of a good man.

We started with just 80 acres. He built the house hisself. Did you know that? It wasn't nothing fancy, no, but we didn't need nothing fancy. It was made pretty much entirely of--oh what do they call it. It ain't just cedar. That uh uh uh--red cedar. Can't believe I forgot that.

Anyway, our place was sprawling with red cedar. Not the prettiest trees you ever saw, but they were ours, and they provided what we needed of them.

Because of us doing alright with the logging, we was able to pick up the Whitmore place. That was another 160 acres.  Robert hated Tennessee, not a doubt in my mind about that. It was his home, though, you see. It was his land. He wanted to make something of it to give to our son, Henry.


III.

Come all you people if you want to hear
The story about a brave engineer;
He's Franklin D. Roosevelt, in Washington D.C.
He's running the train they call 'prosperity.'

Now he straightened up the banks with a big holiday;
He circulated money with the T.V.A.
With the C.C.C. and the C.W.A.
He's brought back smiles and kept hunger away.
      -"Casey Roosevelt" [Excerpts]
          Folk song recorded by Buck Fulton for E.C. and M.N. Kirkland, July, 1937


IV.

Before they even started on the reservoir, the Tennessee Valley Authority started digging up the dead. I'm serious. Most frightful thing you ever saw. Hickory Road--and I swear, I swear on the country, the good Lord, anything from a ****** to a mountain--the road was full-up with buggies carting coffins. Three days straight they were carting dead folks down to Clinton. Most of the coffins were barely holding up, too. Made out that crude pine. Seeing them yellow-but-not-yellow heads poking out was enough to make a feller sick.

If I remember right, they had to relocate something like 5,000 before they dammed up the Clinch, but they made a lot more living, breathing folks than that move along. Lot more.


V.

A week before the T.V.A went and flooded the valley the sounds stopped. The duhh-duhh. The errgh-errgh. You know? The sounds of work. When you don't got all that noise going on--that routine, I guess you could say--what can you do but think?

And because of that, I believe, that last week Pa acted different. He was trying not to, trying to act just the same. But he was trying to be the same too hard. Ma would take coffee off the stove, pour it for him and he'd say: "Thank you, sweetheart." He always said thank you. That much was the same. It's that sweetheart bit that didn't fit in his mouth right. She left the kitchen. Couldn't take it.

Tom Scott hung himself, too. Clyde Johnson, his brother Jacob. There was one more. Big fella that lived down by Hershel's store. Can't remember his name. Pa's was the only body that didn't wash up on the bank.

I never did see them after they washed up. Mrs. Scott said it was appalling. She said her husband's body was all puffed up, swollen with the water. Sheriff cut the rope off her husband's neck. She said that neck was black leading into purple leading into black. Raw. Mrs. Scott didn't live too long after that. A year or so. The shame got to her I suppose.

When folks called my pa a coward, I never argued with them. Didn't see the point. What's a coward? Somebody hang hisself? Somebody that leave his wife and boy to fend for themselves? That a coward? Call him what you want. I ain't gonna argue. All he is--is dead to me.

VI.

My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places. And it will hail when the forest falls down, and the city will be utterly laid low. Happy are you who sow beside all waters, who let the feet of the ox and the donkey range free.
         - Isaiah 32:18-20

VII.**

Robert had brown, wavy hair. He had big hands with scarred knuckles. He was missing a tooth on the right side. Three or four down from the front. You could only tell when he laughed. Every day in the field he wore the same cap, a Miller's Co-op cap, with overlapping sweat stains. He never wanted to track dirt in the house so he'd knock on the side of the house anytime he needed something from inside, like a box of matches or a knife or something. The first two knocks would be to get my attention. They'd sound urgent. The third was soft, as if to say please. When we went to bed, he always waited for me to fall asleep before he even tried. He knew his snoring kept me up.

On the last day, Robert handed me his shotgun. Says, "I love you, Mary." He was so choked up, I didn't know if he was going to kiss me. So I kissed him. Says, "I love you Robert." And that was pretty much all. We got in the buggy and headed off to my mother's.

I wanted to bury the shotgun. I knew I'd need a place to visit, a place to talk to Robert. And it had to be a piece of him. I dug the hole out behind my mother's place. Henry, he must've thought I was crazy, digging that hole the very next day. He asked me what I was going to put in there. I says the shotgun. He says, "No, ma'am, you isn't." I says, "Yes, son, I is." He says we need that gun. Get squirrels. Get rabbits. Make it count, he says.

I was pretty sore about it, but I ended up throwing my wedding ring in that hole. It being the only other thing that was him. We put the shotgun over the door frame in the kitchen.

I miss him every day. I feel it in my body. Feel it down to my bones. I imagine it wouldn't feel no different if I had lost a hand. But what makes me sadder than anything, sadder than not seeing Robert every morning, sadder than knowing he don't get to see what Henry makes of hisself, is that Robert didn't get nobody's attention.

He never said that's why he had to do it. I just figured as much. He wouldn't die for nothing. That wasn't him. The paper wouldn't say nothing about him other than he was dead. I wrote the T.V.A. Never heard nothing back. It's like the world mumbled, "I'm sorry," and just spun on. That's what they give the good men: a mumble. Killers make the front page. They're in the pictures. The good men? For the good men, the world has to keep asking for their names. The world says, "Oh, Robert, right," and "I'm sorry." But the world don't mean it. The world's got dams to build, valleys to flood. Graves to move. People to uproot. Why? Do you know? Course you don't. God hisself would shrug his shoulders and tell me that's just the way it is.

Count your fingers.
There's still ten.
But you don't get on to me
for counting them again.

She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?

No.

With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.

Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?

He thinks.

She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.

Good.

She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?

Yes.

Can I read it?

Not yet.

When I wake up?

When you wake up.

With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.

The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.

Wake me up before you go to work, okay?

Okay.

With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.

Wouldn't miss it.

Good morning.

Good morning.

A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.

The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.

In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.

Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.

Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.

I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.


When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.

Have not.

Have too. Did you finish it?

Yes.

Can I read it?

After you actually get some sleep.

What'd you call it?

Is a Woman.

I like that.

And they cast the man as the one
who gets brought down by dogs.
When he met the director,
the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian."

"I guess we should give you a speaking part."

So in the snow, behind the pines, with three
cameras on him, the man was brought down
by dogs, and instead of falling silently,
he was allowed to shout "no."

Despite the open air, his call was shrill.
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged
as if encased in metal.

The director, unnerved, instructed
the man to do the scene again.
"Try shouting 'why.' "

The man's cap was off.
Snow flew from the strands
of his hair. A dog chewed
on his forearm.
And he said, "Why."

Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled--
not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool,
like a child playing ghost in a winter living room.

The director took the man aside.
"What's wrong?"

The man had never seen a person die.
He'd never even seen a dog die, although
he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly
thereafter.

"Nothing," the man said.

"Die naturally this time."

"Alright."

On the third take, one of the dogs tore
into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean.

"I want to die," the man said, "but not like this."

"Louder," the director said.

"I want to die but not like this."

"What was that?"

"I want to die but not like this."

The dogs lapped at his blood.
One of the camera men came in close.
The man went limp, hoping it would end
the take.