I married a schizophrenic man to fly. Right out of that homeless shelter on Beaver Street, the one tucked so low and in between Duane Reade and the Sanitation Department you’d hardly notice it even with its burgundy door. It was sleeping on pavement moments that uncorked me. One night of that and I dropped in to the drop-in centre. That’s what they’re calling them now. Two days homeless and he put his hand in mine. He’s all tornado and moan. He’s hearing voices and I wipe sweat off his temples. I want to grab my hand back, he’s a street guy, a vaquero, a younger guy, a muchacho malo. I don’t. I keep my hand there and he steals indiscriminately from my future.

At our secret lake the smell of cedars floated on the air, water lapped at a fallen tree, sun warmed the towels we spread on a huge rock. When we went there, we’d lie around in our old pilly swimsuits, or nothing, and not worry about sucking in our stomachs or making conversation. The day washed over us. One time, after a dip in the lake, George asked me, “What’s the opposite of déjà vu?”

I am the daughter who left
Pacing father and busied mother
Staring out the window on the front door of yesterday
Watching as leaves fall
They look for my footprints in the grass
Parched
They sit in their tubewell

Creative nonfiction is the term of choice these days. It certainly didn’t start that way, and there are still several other ways of referring to “that way of writing” which readers might also be familiar with: literary nonfiction, literary journalism, narrative prose, you get the idea. We’re trying to find a way to nail this baby, the “baby” being, in the short form of the definition, the application of literary techniques to documentary material.