The English Countryside

Hugh Smith

for Chloe Neatrour

Your father’s semen yes I understand you have informed me, you have explained the nuance. Yes he didn’t know the future was coming, yes you are the future to him, yes I see the future which you are to him one thing that is harder to love than the past. And that it was not easy for him to love his past. But like I said there were further complications. It was the kind of thing so easy for you to do you cannot decide not to do it. Try it. Try it with a goddamn unicycle if you go down a hill on a goddamn unicycle and you shall know his conception and experience of sex. We didn’t hesitate. Spoke immediately. By force of necessity, she had received my letter outlining a theorized imagination about one’s theorized retroactively failed sperm and eggs. Well anyway I do hope that she had. Don’t interrupt me. Don’t interrupt me. You aren’t speaking. It has the appearance of being one way. Because you shall have claimed your own agency. A sense of yourself as something isolate. Twice you said so. As if I needed to be told. As if I was the child. Imagine both of our sperms, imagine if the two sperms had met on the way to the walls of her egg. A decision not to be taken lightly, that which your father wanted to take back from you. The original ejaculation in the sense that the path towards it did not seem strewn with foreshadowing. Forget the semen. She realized this with a hand laid on her breast. The breast felt warm and hard and so she realized that the remembrance of her father had to do with her breasts somehow and so the situation was now inevitably complicated by this. Because I was looking down when she entered. Mentioning the horses which persist outside of the barns, the barns she asked me breathless, Should we celebrate, her frame enveloping the insignificant barn entrance like a bat, black and as if with wings: I was whispering that when she entered. Come to the barn with me, I am already there; Come to the barn with me, locate me, I am already there, I am waiting. If not we must have been talking about different things which overlapped in an unaccountable way. Now you. Oh you. When she was in the doorway of the barn, looming, I mean. You looming. Us and the barn. Your father you say made you. Well my father made me. And the gift of his semen proved more complicated than it originally had seemed.