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My Monster

ISSUE:  Fall 2018


This hill, even if a small one, this hill with us and the dog the same dog 
forever moving shadow-like down it, to where the hill disappears…For 
some of a winter long ago, back when empathy still seemed a form 
of love—more static, maybe, less steep, but just as complicated—
I stayed in a small house, cabin-like, but no cabin, at the end of a pier 
that jutted out into a harbor as piers tend to. It was January. Why so

this quiet, he used to ask, in his language. I barely knew his language.
I’d turn him over, and there was sex or not, then, and there was
sleeping after. At night as I lay in bed, the whole place would rock,
mostly gently, which was the tide finding higher shore again, or
sometimes the wind making rough with water, as was the case one
particular night when it was snowing. Snowing over the sea, 

and windy. I know resemblance is not equation. I know 
equivalence doesn’t mean translation. I say there was a wind, 
and that’s often how I remember it, but tonight it almost seems 
the night must have been windless, I remember the steady verticality 
with which the snow fell, falling into the sea. I’d turn him over; I barely 
knew him; why so this quiet. The crown looks good on you, the veil 
does too—when you lift the veil, the future’s everything you wished for.



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