I myself have made love to a corpse. It happened during a hurricane in New Orleans, where stories like mine aren’t uncommon. That morning my best friend Mike got married—making me, I was certain, no longer his best friend—and I plunged into depths of self-pity. Mike was not only marrying, he was moving to the other side of the country. I took this hurricane as an omen.
Seeking six days for the very spot, I found chalk arrows pointing away from each other. I found dandelions. I found a pathway, I found the moon rising in daytime. I found the dimension of impasto petals thick with light. Tracking the moon’s cycle, I found a rolling orb, sunflowers for spokes, palette knifes for handlebars.
Two ladies in a garden before a house on Windy Ridge. “You’re Davie, aren’t you?” one of them says in a low voice as the boy passes by. She’s Leticia Spall, he knows her. The one beside her is unknown. They both have arms folded beneath their breasts. There are dazzling hip-high flowers, perhaps dahlias, glowing all around them.