Rock Springs Circle

By Marisa P. Clark / Issue 19

The upstairs neighbors (newlyweds; basset hound
named Elvis) laughed saying they could hear me sing
along with U2’s Achtung, Baby! I harmonized with Bono,

pretended I was singing lead. All I heard of them was
footfall—they padded barefoot on the hardwood floors,
played fetch with the galumphing dog. I heard no lovemaking,

arguments, conversation, or TV, and never music. They
weren’t like neighbors from apartments past—Janet
with her early-morning vacuuming habit or the couple

whose shrill, whiny fights ended in long bouts of violent
crying. From this sweet pair’s laughter, I gathered
nothing I did disturbed—not late-night sex or drop-ins

from my ex writing sultry ballads on my guitar. To them,
I was an alto voice set free from a recorded melody,
lyrics rising from desire marrow-deep, “One” on repeat.

MARISA P. CLARK is a queer writer who grew up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and came out in Atlanta. Her prose and poetry appear in Shenandoah, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Epiphany, Foglifter Journal, Prairie Fire Magazine, Rust + Moth, Sundog Lit, Air/Light, and elsewhere. Best American Essays 2011 recognized her creative nonfiction among its Notable Essays. A senior fiction reader for New England Review, she lives in New Mexico with three parrots, two dogs, and whatever wildlife and strays stop to visit.