It\u2019s in my throat now, the fact of our people.
\nTwo generations back, there were twins,<\/p>\n
a boy and a girl. Two who, among many,
\nmade my beloved condition hereditary.<\/p>\n
The woman\u2019s name was Doris. They owned
\na gas station, which I imagine on a corner\u2013<\/p>\n
never in the middle of a street. I imagine her
\nwith her sleeves rolled up, I imagine him dirty.<\/p>\n
I imagine him mean with fumes, her tender
\nand tired. Then, it was called a filling station;<\/p>\n
a place where motorists came, curbside
\nand desperate. Little did they know<\/p>\n
that their kin, decades later, would come
\nto own another place where people rested,<\/p>\n
in between roads. What I mean to say is,
\nI come from a line of people in service<\/p>\n
of something\u2013petroleum, linen napkins,
\na glass of red, motor oil, radicchio.<\/p>\n
But even more than that: my people come
\nin pairs. To be at rest is to be in a room with<\/p>\n
someone else; quiet, or not, talking, or not,
\nbut always a body in relation to another body.<\/p>\n
I think of how Jupiter has 92 moons: you see,
\nit\u2019s about pull. My sister: she may not be here,<\/p>\n
now, but she\u2019s at my waist, the pull of her.
\nIt\u2019s a thirst, a tow. In the family Bible,<\/p>\n
Doris\u2019s name is listed, and then it says, she has lived a life, and been gone: the pull <\/p>\n <\/p>\n It\u2019s in my throat now, the fact of our people. Two generations back, there were twins, a boy and a girl. Two who, among many, made my beloved condition hereditary. The woman\u2019s name was Doris. They owned a gas station, which I imagine on a corner\u2013 never in the middle of a street. I imagine […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2292,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[79],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4SA","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18760"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2292"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18760"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18760\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18763,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18760\/revisions\/18763"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18760"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18760"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18760"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nin parentheses, twin of Andrew<\/em>. Even after<\/p>\n
\nof her brother at her remembered waist.<\/p>\nLindsay Stewart<\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"