She opened the door to find him on the floor, face down on the carpet, spread eagle. It was the position and
not the time of day that disturbed her. To be on the floor is sometimes comfortable, the way the hard cold tile
feels good on your face sometimes, but this was a man who appeared at once to be drawn from imaginary
cords from the four corners of the room and to be showing what the body would do at the moment of
explosion. She was wrong about both. He was making himself abject. Open at all the private parts and love so low to the ground, low as he could possibly go. It was the position of arrest. It was a door she can’t close.

LINDSAY ILLICH is an Associate Professor of English at Curry College in Milton, MA. Her work has appeared or forthcoming in Arcadia, Gulf Coast, North American Review, Salamander, and Sundog Lit
The Adirondack Review