My dream about Jorge Luis Borges 

by Jon Muzzall, Detroit

And now I will cease this dissembling. I remember what happened when I was here. I am, in fact, Borges. Thirty years have passed and I am not blind or old or an Argentine, but I am he. The woman I wrote of then is here again too; I still have not touched her golden hair. Sometimes, at night, I wish for the cycle to bring me home again to the rose-colored earth of Buenos Aires. During those moments I forget not only that I am already there, but also that I am already home.

 

Return to the Summer Fiction index. Send comments to letters@metrotimes.com

Tags: ,

Readers also liked…

Best Things to Do In Detroit

Newsletters

Never miss a beat

Sign Up Now

Subscribe now to get the latest news delivered right to your inbox.

© 2016 Detroit Metro Times

Website powered by Foundation