I reread Celan’s Death Fugue last night. The circles of words he shapes – ashen hair Shulamite, golden hair Margareta- stirred in circular motions my memory.
The darkness – black milk – recalled the darkness in which I first read the poem.
Night classes in New York. Fall semester sophmore year. Professor Anthony Robbins.
We watched Godard, Resnais. Read Sontag, Celan. Studied death camps, disasters.

Winter began and the city froze. I wore only a white trenchcoat. Welcomed cold pain. When Mom came to visit after many months away, she saw me approach and looked as though the sight knocked the wind out of her…looked upon the specter of her child’s body and felt the cold darkness hit her like a wave.
I was writing my own death fugue. I am better now.