Twelve steps, interventions, Oprah.
Christians, Muslims, Scientologists,
the neighborhood watch. An easy
alchemy turns fear into a superiority
complex. “He must love you this
way. You must love him thus.”
As though you were discussing
the Filioque clause. He drives me
to beaches where he dreads both
sand and wind, to abandoned light-
houses he says ought to fall, to
antique malls so I can drag more
clutter home. He sits in the car
staring at legal pads choked with
equations. He harkens on his cell
to hardline astrologers. He looks up
and scans for me every minute or
so. Except when he waits outside the
ARCW — AIDS Resource Center
of Wisconsin. There, he stares at
the glass door, the blackened bricks,
the young women wobbling on sticks,
the inmates bright as traffic cones
guided by cops so they won’t feel
astray or alone. He stares and sees
his twenty aunts turn to Boat People,
transformed by a prayer to Bo trees,
the gray and grainy evacuation
of former Saigon, the fences around
a Thai refugee camp, see-through
clothes that printed their pattern
delicately, indelibly on his skin.
