1. I want to remove the human from writing. It has an odor and it is repellant. When I am in trees and I see cigarette stubs I have to think about a face instead of the trees. Lethe is a river and I am crossing it. Lethe is a river and it has crossed and lies sweating water on the farther bank. It does not want memories anymore. There isn’t fun in living all that wanting through again. When it told you that if it was over it would wish it never happened it made you upset to hear that.
2. It swims back and forth the river Lethe. All it forgets in every lap now is the pronunciation. Lee-thee not leh-theh and there is no one to listen. One day you come to shore and see its face breaking the water surface. You yell its name and it doesn’t remember but it comes out of the river Lethe because of the novelty of another. It feels something like a memory in its hands looking at you. The river doesn’t move, it’s an illusion. You touch it on the arm and it pulls you fighting into the water.
3. Under the water together both its felt like one. Closer than earthly coupling. The new it broke the water surface of the river Lethe and the fear had washed with the hurt and sadness. Nothing was cliché. On the shore the its looked at one another. I would say they were like animals that owe nothing, but I wasn’t there. It walked away from the other, and never saw it again, and it wasn’t a metaphor.
4. It lived a long time in trees. It couldn’t be called a life; nicer. Then the memory came back in the hands and then split from always. It couldn’t find its way to the river Lethe for all the time in the forest which was a forest again and not just trees. I picked the direction of the Sun and walked. I marked my way with chalky rock. Whenever I remembered to, I yelled your name. I didn’t feel good anymore.
5. I made toys. I used the toys to make a house. A woman saw the house and left and came back and moved in. We built more houses and other people saw them and moved in. She had my child. The child grew up and made toys and made houses and had children. Soon there were many toys and houses and people. They all made other things, lots of them.
6. They were all toys to me, the people and the things they made. From on high, the city looked like an anthill. I didn’t take any interest in anything, until my great-grandchild made the computer. Here was a toy that could help me forget. I learned how to use it. I made worlds within worlds. Along the way I lost your name. You weren’t you anymore.
7. The computer is the perfect metaphor. It stretches over everything. If I have to live, let me live in the 1:1 demo. Even if the pain stays on, there is a distance made. The you in there is exactly the same, and also different. I never go to where you are there. I have completely forgotten. I leave the demo once a year to sleep for one night.
8. In my dream I saw you at a bar. Your hair was like when we first met, but your face was thinner and you were wearing heavy makeup. At once it became real that you were older. You looked excited to see me. I thought I would be excited too, but I wasn’t. You said my name and touched my arm. I turned away and I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. I don’t believe in heaven.
Conor Hultman’s work has appeared in Hobart Pulp, Expat Press, Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, Bruiser Magazine, and Spectra Poets. He is the author of the poetry collections DOE and 飛び込む jumped in 音 sound 古池や old pond 水の蛙 frogs of water. He serves as an editor at Loser.