In the future, the future will be the past, and: BRCA1, and: Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down, and: Meditation on a false spring, and: From the history of grade school Bob Hicok (bio) In the future, the future will be the past Bob Hicok A woman screamed during the protest between supporters of Arabs on one side and Israelis on the other that Jews should “go back to the ovens.” There’s a picture of her on the web in a white scarf, mouth open, everything slightly blurry because she was moving or the camera was or the Earth jumped a bit at what she said. As I looked at the picture, Eve was behind me folding a shirt, sleeves first and then in half and then in half again the other way, making me glad I’m not a shirt, she coughed and I saw her in an oven. This wasn’t a thought but a vision, not a Jew in an oven but this Jew in an oven, not this Jew in an oven but these lips, eyes, this voice made ash. I got up and kissed her to make sure she was there, not telling her she’d just died in my brain, then sat before the screen and stared and stared again at the picture of the woman, refreshing my gaze at whatever rate humans do who want to know what it feels like to wear a particular head, to own a different tongue. Sure that, if I could meet her, if the crowd dispersed, if screaming were put aside, if she sat across a table from Eve, and saw her stirring coffee, worrying a hair into place, and I gave this woman paper and pencil and told her, I am a god, you can sketch anything you want to happen and it will happen, she wouldn’t sketch an oven and Eve in the oven, wouldn’t draw fire but a hill, as all children draw hills, [End Page 148] as all adults are children in the universe in which I am a god, a hill with a view of other wavings from other hills— these are examples of the thoughts I have of people, as these are examples of questions I ask the falling snow: if I could burn a sock could I burn a foot, if a foot a finger, if a finger an ear, if an ear a womb, could I ever burn a womb, snow, in your opinion, how did we get here? [End Page 149] Copyright © 2009 The Curators of the University of Missouri BRCA1 Bob Hicok She has the gene, the cytosine, adenine her mother sister had, her sother mister had, they’ve named the gene. If I named a gene I’d name it Gene, I knew a Gene, brother to Greg. We are like genetically mice, tiny creatures with toes, she is like genetically eighty-seven percent likely to have breast cancer, ovarian cancer: ovum, Oppen, open, closed. So come July, away with thee, mammaries and ovaries, live together in imperfect harmony . . . it only takes a day to remove the real and add, pick a word: prosthetic, cosmetic, the faux breasts and the egg sacks are just gone, call them the nothings, the novaries. And there I am/was cringing, and there she is/was smiling, touching my hand, saying nononononono, this is a good thing, the best thing the universe has come up with since the wet kiss, I am taking dialogic license there but she was happy as a torch in a Frankenstein flick. The townspeople have gathered to kill the monster. [End Page 150] It’s dark, but they have fire, she has fire, she’s going to kill the monster that killed her mother, her sister, if I may pare-a-phrase down to its essentials: hurray. But ouch. Hurray. But seriously: ouch. And the world, one day, had a second sky, a sky for just the sky to stare up and deepblue and into, and a lake for the lake to dive giggling in and doggypaddle across, and a new and soon improved her sitting there midlife grinning brights...
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