Karen Solie
Determinism
Determinism
Someone’s walking toward you, tree to tree, parting leaves
with the barrel of a rifle. There’s a scope
on it. He’s been watching awhile
through his good eye, you, washing dishes, scouring
what’s burned with a handful of salt, so your shoulders shake
a little. Keep your back to him. It’s sexier
under the bulb, light degraded,
like powder. The kitchen screens
are torn. You’ve worn something
nice. There’s a breeze he’s pressing through, boots
in the grass. There’s a breeze and you smell him
blowing in on it. As if this has always
been happening and you’ve entered the coincidence of your life
with itself, the way a clock’s ticks will hit the beat of a Hank Williams song,
the best one, on the radio, fridge hum tuned without a quaver
to the sustained notes of the bridge. As if
you’ve arrived at where the hinge
articulates. An animal
may be bleeding in the woods. He could be carrying a pair of grouse
by the feet. Only details are left, bruises of gesture, style’s aspirin
grit. He shuts the door and leans the gun against the wall
like a guitar. You keep your back to him because
it’s sexier. Because in turning
you will see the dinner in all its potential
as you speak, spring the catch, finish this, the weighted moment
buckling into consequence. The place
where you can face your history and see it coming.
