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By Laura Lippman

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Mike Hammer. ” All that happens are the usual plot twists with new frozen mud roads through the northern countries of double entendres. All that happens is the box that contains the big light that may end the world. The name of the movie is Kiss Me Deadly. The tube goes off with a hiss and with an incredible shrinking star. Darkness is magnanimous to our love, the starving world is darkness. I want to be honest with you, but what do I want when I am being honest? Let sincerity and irony be those Siamese twins arguing over whose stomach grumbles loudest, whose loins ache most, whose heart breaks most for the other.

Nights will cook, window shutters will close, one day a six-mile-wide meteor will bring the force of forty thousand hydrogen bombs, ashen cities feel homesick for the apocalypse. The moon will find houses with nothing left in them to eat. But it’s summer now, and the vagrant fireflies sail the short-lived blistering breezes, cross a field where junked cars photofinish in their race through unloved knapweed to rust and dry-rot. Fireflies sail past warehouses boarded up to keep the dark inside and fireflies outside, fireflies loiter among cement trucks parked for the night behind barbed wire beaded with fireflies like some crazed abacus.

It is snowy enough, no real concern at all if we can’t make out the citizens of darkness. And the people who told us the inside didn’t matter weren’t people but a mass opinion with no love in its arms. Then let us dissect the eye that cries and find the source of tears, which cannot see itself. This moment we’ve waited our lifetimes to lose let the midwife’s hands raise living gloves of blood— a thin rain has begun, like the falling of hair— hospital babies screaming their way into their breath, making up fresh faces as they go, wintry streets stretched out intestinally step by slippery step past morgue-sized mansions, light four-square on snow more stolid than an ethics, light thrown around and around by the oars of ceiling fans.

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