Reimagining The Interrogation of Betty Hill
A.D. Lauren-Abunassar
—After Josh Tvrdy
i.
Have you seen him?
I’ve scene-played the whole thing out:
the just-there eclipse,
the pockmarked car. If I had to pick
a favorite dress I’d pick moonlight
and not wonder
why he stole me
Where do you see him?
incidentally, often I feel seaworthy.
On a day to day basis I imagine my beloved
shaped out in gray pipe cleaner:
his wrist bones are fine as windpipes
but I don’t have to breathe him to know
that he lives for leaf-burdened gutters
and palindromes. The same start as the ending
comforts him, the slow march of small cursive script.
When I see him he looks like he wants to smooth
my eyebrows or give me new skin to walk around in,
a blemish on the sole of my right foot, a fat blister
under my thumb, a passport to silent country
where quartz glitters bright as a blood
oath. I see him. Mostly in rainwater—drink deep and ceaseless
And what do you live off of?
the top of my head, but where is the bottom?
I have bottomed all outs, he sneaks quietly through.
He knows about light’s shelf life—its briny appeal
What does he say?
prayers that sound like salad recipes
the antidote to hunger is not eating
but bleeding—& sliced black olives
make the best hoop earrings
That’s a good story. Why does he say that?
because there’s no late night TV in the other dimension
and I’m tired of gimmicks. I never wanted to be the person
who spoke quietly. I never wanted to be afraid of each and every
star—like eraser-torn holes in a blue-black sheet of paper
warm from the printer. I was drawn, did I tell you? That he studied
and bound my each loose turn. My own phantom limb pains
each time he traces my penciled edge—
What are you afraid of?
hillsides. The right way home. I have learned my own name
I have said my own name. I have buried the sheets that I slept on.
I have slept with the windows unlocked
and racked each stranger’s elbow
for a tiny taste of want
ii.
Can you describe the feeling, Betty, can you?
Can you describe the feeling
of a water-filled thirst
Do you remember the sound of his voice?
I remember it lovely
and not-supposed-to-be-lovely
like a tongue on an envelope, or
the first-bitten grape
Was he Khrushchev?
more like Demikhov screwing
the heads onto dogs
Was he ecstatic?
more like the staticy sweater
I wear each Christmas
Does he control you?
As a girl I had always been own-less
I gave away easily
each prayer, each gift. I remember the letter
my mother sent. I remember the taste of poinsettia.
And I heard what Cassie said about the boy on the bus,
his fast-coldened hands. Who doesn’t feel controlled?
Now and then. When he opened the night and reached down
it could have been a god in his best white-trousers. Could
have been dirt running towards the drain. I felt pulled.
I feel pulled.
Are you small, a very small little girl, or a big person, grown up?
I am the errant fish, the long lost harbinger
I told him everywhere I am soft I am touched
and I hate that. He said:
where your heart a trumpet is
iii.
What do you feel?
… too much—
Is he a bad guy?
Silence
Do you like him?
Silence
Do you like bad guys, Betty?
I like guys good at guise
I like green doors, not red ones
I like jars filled with ash,
temples fit to hold urges
I like dustpans and stop lights
the yellow neon of pollen
on the bottom of everything
I like water rings and coal heaps
cellophane pulled tight round my
ankles like liquid glass. Given a choice
I would eat the choice
I would keep it inside me
The cold thing—where do they put it?
As a girl I held interests in drowning.
Wore my water-walking shoes
to the lake then sunk. Felt the color deepen
as the water deepened
and this is where they put each lost thing. This
is where he put me again, in this moment
with the cold things that used to be warm things
with the hollow bones of birds who tried, like me,
to—
Do you see him?
Often I see oceans
in what really are ponds
What does he look like?
Like Ike or me trying
to avoid the question.
I will not yield the floor. I will not clean the floor.
In all my life I have never held the last word.
But what does he look like?
The hypnotist posed over each small life
that claims to be large
the underside of undeveloped photographs
a thin sleeve of yes yes yes—
in the room I was given a gown. In the gown
I was given a word. My name
was a tiny bird
*All interview questions taken from NOVA transcripts.
A.D. Lauren-Abunassar is an Arab-American whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Narrative, The Moth, Cincinnati Review, Diode, Radar, and elsewhere. She was a 2019 Narrative Poetry Contest finalist, a Narrative 30 Below 30 Finalist, the winner of the 2019 Boulevard Emerging Writers Award, and a Pushcart Prize nominee. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.