Black Forrest by Laura Newbern

 Black Forrest

Sometimes my mind goes back to certain things.Like everyone’s.Like to the woman who asked meWhat keeps you awake at night?She wanted a writerly, magical answer.A black forest, a shining maid walking through it.The woman—she was a guest, a visiting artist.I was a guest to her visitingness: polite guestat an affable table.My neck, I said, meaning painof the basest physical kind. Meaning alsosadness, and worry—though I didn’t say so.I’d done enough, I’d said the neck thingas if I were snapping a chicken for supper.The woman smiled through it, a pro.Oh, I’m sorry, she said, pushing the shining maidinto a closet and shutting the door in a hushedand magical way.I wanted to bind her with rope.I wanted to watch her struggle, if just for a minute.The mind goes back, the heart goes with it, the forestwhirls all around. InsteadI was kind to her husband, whose lifehad had something to do with flight.He was quiet, the husband. Like someonewhose part in the world was done.He seemed to expectno one.He was the husband.He was like light on the leaves of night.