380
DAVID ZANE MAIROWITZ
what an obscene word that is!) and his mate, a black hole, oh a very
articulate and courteous black hole, but black nevertheless, a
hole
nevertheless, a speaking breathing chewing worshipping hole never–
theless ... a fan. Your death won't delight you, but it will delight me
because it will be
your
death. I will be waiting. And I will remem–
ber. Can you guess how very specialized fans are, how very loyal?
How much more deep a hole can be, more permanent and depend–
able than any star?
Other people will forget you - your wife and children, certain–
ly - but your fans will remember you, because they have nothing
else to do.
I will live and relive your life, your death agony, and your death.
So sweet. Have faith in me. Of your fans (and you probably haven't
many, being minor; you can't be choosy) I will remember you best,
so have faith. And give a sign.
In
fact, for your own good give a sign.
I will confess that at this point in my life
I need you
as
much
as
you
need me,
so for your own good give me a sign: call me at 945-0095,
any day after 5 : 30.
Faithfully,
R. Brightmore
David Zane Mairowitz
THE GRACE
Born a boy, she would have been Franklin Delano Roose–
velt Munch. Instead she was named to commemora te her own illegal
entry through popular evidence of gloomy weather, a song of mourn–
ful lovers, she, Perfidia, the woman-child, disgrace and burden to a
history of doctors and certified public accountants. Her opening leap
into being had rent a significant hole in Mother Munch, awaiting a
masculine sonata at the first scream. She had been cheated of her
seasons and her purpose. And when, with the first dive for the breast,
the child drank down her feast and kept it down, without a moment's
falter at the brink of catastrophe, with a giggle of containment and
