Laurie Blauner ~ The Stories of the Dead

The dead have their own prob­lems, unable to sep­a­rate one day from anoth­er, call­ing out to some­one who might remem­ber them in anoth­er room, wav­ing a phan­tom arm in greet­ing. I see beyond them. I am hur­ry­ing to the dance hall, with its speck­led bird egg floor, where I will dance and dance with any­one until I don’t feel any­thing any­more. Inside the cav­ernous, dim room that smells of old pow­der and dust as if every­thing is des­ic­cat­ed, I twirl and twirl with whomev­er wants to dance with me. I tan­go. Until I find and hold onto a man with crooked, yel­low teeth, seen when he smiles, glis­ten­ing dark hair, and a bevy of rings on his fin­gers. He is wear­ing a suit. We are tight against each oth­er and he seems familiar.

I’ve killed some­one, he whis­pers into my ear that doesn’t want to know.

Recently? I close my eyes for a moment and see myself as a square, black object drift­ing slow­ly down­ward through water.

Yesterday. He pulls me even clos­er, turn­ing his head aris­to­crat­i­cal­ly toward a spa­cious star-stud­ded window.

Why did you do it?

He spins me around. They were annoy­ing me.

How? I murmur.

But he just grunts, then laughs a little.

Several lights illu­mi­nate night out­side a win­dow. The room is busy and full, heads, arms, and legs all in motion and inter­min­gling. A bird swoops near a head occa­sion­al­ly, star­tling some­one. Are you mar­ried?

Yes, and I have chil­dren, he answers curtly.

Our danc­ing grows a bit lop­sided. Now I can dis­tin­guish that the walls are red and the door is brighter red. Have you told your wife?

No. No one. Just you. He smiles sadly.

I say noth­ing. He is lead­ing us toward the edges of the large room where any­thing could hap­pen. Away from the enor­mous cir­cle of the oth­er dancers. Dust blows into my face like harsh words. Then we trav­el back across the floor as if we are going some­where. A vaca­tion in an excit­ing and dan­ger­ous coun­try. I grip his hands as he maneu­vers his arms into cer­tain posi­tions. Everyone’s feet are con­stant­ly mov­ing yet none of us seem tired. My back is slammed into by anoth­er couple.

I am momen­tar­i­ly knocked off bal­ance. I think about leav­ing but I don’t. Someone tries to open a win­dow that is fas­tened, sealed shut. I am a door, uncer­tain what I want, open or closed. Suddenly I’m attached to my form as it sweeps again across the musty, wood­en floor. He is with me. All kinds of peo­ple are here, young, old, tall, short, wide, thin, blonde, red-haired, and all are inter­min­gled. Do I want to die? More? With the man clasp­ing me? His fea­tures gath­er and then dis­perse into an inscrutable expres­sion. I grow dizzy from the con­stant motion. Music trick­les toward us from a few musi­cians, whom I can’t see well, on a far stage.

I want to dance with some­one else but I don’t want to annoy this man. Besides, when we move we seem to fit togeth­er. I won­der if I’m sleep­ing or dream­ing. I don’t under­stand time and space, every­thing becom­ing so dis­tant. No one sits or rests. We are in step.

I say, I’m not afraid of you.

Nor should you be. His head tilts in a way that implies he doesn’t under­stand me.

I think about the names of the stars out­side the win­dow and how ocean waves sound like some­one haunt­ed yet try­ing to breathe. Am I here any­more? I’m float­ing. Then I remem­ber my apart­ment in a dank city and the child there. I begin cry­ing as qui­et­ly as I can. I don’t know why I’m cry­ing. Grief? Joy? Relief? We are still danc­ing. Maybe I’m sim­ply lone­ly, even with all these peo­ple around.

I stop cry­ing and danc­ing right in the mid­dle of the floor. People swirl around us, star­ing. He is per­plexed. I’m ready to walk out that very red door, believ­ing that there is more for me just beyond it.

You don’t under­stand, do you? He com­plains angrily.

I brush past him.

Feel your neck. He grabs my arm.

I’m near­ly at the door. I do. It’s bad­ly bruised. It feels unhinged.

I killed you yes­ter­day.

I’m turn­ing the door­knob and ready. Not now, I say.

~

Laurie Blauner is the author of nine books of poet­ry, five nov­els, and a book of hybrid non­fic­tion. Another non­fic­tion book called Swerve is forth­com­ing in Spring 2025 from Rain Mountain Press. A new nov­el is avail­able from Spuyten Duyvil Press. Her lat­est poet­ry book, Come Closer, won the Library of Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander Press.