Jeffrey Bahr My Life Fails to Pass Before My Eyes I'm naked on a folding chair. She's sipping Sleepytime, wings folded, bright dial hovering behind her head, enough to light the tablet on her lap. "Where were we? Nebraska from the back of an Impala, green moon in the window tint, a gooseberry airborne, the mouth of the Mekong, pink tongues of barnacles in a Basque bar." "See what I mean?" she says shaking a feather loose, flipping a page of her memo pad. I try again: Peacocks on a tiled roof, all the hens hidden. A big wooden mallet, crabs piled up on newspapers like red evening purses. A cottonmouth, a raised rake. She rolls her eyes and points at my scars. Singapore? Lisbon? So many places have holes in their coins. Again: A guy in Baltimore with a Movado, thin and black-faced with a dot for midnight. The Joyce Chen cleaver beneath the box springs. Imagine. Before I wheeled my son from the bright room. After the lover in Hamburg, the friend who shipped grease-guns to Argentina. It's no use telling her I've lost the sequence of things. She won't let me in without Names and Dates. My children are missing. The dog wants out. They leave together - I wash up her cup and climb back into bed. Maybe I'll try the Bay Bridge next, let gravity find order in events as I rush to the long blue deadline. The Errancy And so we hacked a large bowl in the forest floor. We used my father's trenching tool to pile the clay along the perimeter, and weighted a tablecloth with rocks at one end and pulled it over us and waited in the mud. Eventually, the sounds of the Beltway faded. Random naps, the smell of our young bodies, and then the burning of the Bible someone brought: mainly the middle parts no one had read, catching the kindling, eight palms warmed by the light. We told all the jokes we knew, burned Look and Life, argued for a while over how to pronounce Miscellany. Eating the last of wrapped sandwiches, grins when the waxed paper flashed into black silk, someone said his mom made all the decisions. Someone said his dad kept a Luger and a sock full of bullets. Someone said we were his last chance. The fire was pitiful, someone snapped branches and the forest-savvy of us laughed. We all slept a while and someone said we should go home, and we all did. Jeffery Bahr lives in Colorado and is the Managing Editor of The Alsop Review. His work has appeared in various publications including The Alaska Quarterly Review, Barrow Street, Indiana Review, Many Mountains Moving, Beacon Street Review and Birmingham Poetry Review.