The Wrong End of the Telescope

by Rabih Alameddine

Memory is a wound, you said. And some things are released only by the act of writing. Unless I go in with my scalpel and suction to excavate, to clean, to bring into light, that wound festers, and the gangrene of decay will eat me

knew how to encase my rampant heart in iron and plod ahead, and when I left home I most certainly did.