BPR 53 | 2026
The Clock—died on June 24, 2009
and it was untimely. How many times my
father has failed the clock test. Once
I heard a scientist with Alzheimer’s on
the radio, trying to figure out why he
could no longer draw a clock. It had
to do with the superposition of three
types. The hours represented by 1–
12, the minutes where a 1 no longer
represents 1 but 5, and a 2 now
represents 10, then the second hand
that measures 1 to 60. I sat at the
stoplight and thought of the clock, its
perfect circle and its superpositions,
all the layers of complication on a
plane of thought, yet the healthy read
the clock in one single instant without
a second thought. I think about my
father and his lack of first thoughts,
how every thought is a second or third
or fourth thought, unable to locate
the first most important thought. I
wonder about the man on the radio
and how far his brain has degenerated
since. Marvel at how far our brains
allow language to wander without
looking back but knowing where the
pier is. If you unfold an origami swan,
and flatten the paper, is the paper sad
because it has seen the shape of the
swan or does it aspire towards
flatness, a life without creases? My
father is the paper. He remembers the
swan but can’t name it. He no longer
knows the paper swan represents an
animal swan. His brain is the water
the animal swan once swam in, holds
everything, but when thawed, all the
fish disappear. Most of the words we
say have something to do with fish.
And when they’re gone, they’re gone.
from OBIT, Copper Canyon Press, 2020