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Notes to be engraved at the foot
of the pedestal of the tomb of




The last thing I saw was a hallway ceiling four feet wide, finished along its edges with a plaster molding that looked like a long row of small fish, each trying to swallow the one ahead of it.

The last thing I saw was a crack of yellow sky between buildings, partly obscured by a line of laundry.

The last thing I saw was the parapet, and beyond it the trees.

The last thing I saw was his badge, but I couldn’t tell you the number.

The last thing I saw was a full shot glass, slid along by somebody who clapped me on the back.

The last thing I saw was the sedan that came barreling straight at me while I thought, It’s okay, I'm safely behind the window of the doughnut shop.

The last thing I saw was a boot, right foot, with nails protruding from the instep.

The last thing I saw was a turd.

The last thing I saw was a cobble.

The last thing I saw was night.

I lost my balance crossing Broadway and was trampled by a team of brewery horses.

I was winching myself up from the side of a six-story house on a board platform with a load of nails for the cornice when the weak part of the rope hit the pulley sideways and got sheared. I lost my way in snowdrifts half a block from my apartment.

I drank a bottle of carbolic acid not really knowing whether I meant to or not. I got very cold and coughed and forgot things.

I went out to a yard to try to give birth in secret, but something happened. I met a policeman who mistook me for somebody else.

I was drunk on my birthday and fell off the dock trying to grab a gold piece that looked like it was floating.

I was hanged in the courtyard of the Tombs before a cheering crowd and people clogged the rooftops of buildings, but I still say that rascal had it coming.

I stole a loaf of bread and started eating it as I ran down the street, but there was a wad of raw dough in the middle that got caught in my throat.

I was supposed to get up early that morning, but couldn't move. I heard a sort of whistling noise above my head as I was passing by the post office, and that's all I know.

I was hustling a customer who looked like a real swell, but when we got upstairs he pulled out a razor.

I owed a lot of rent and got put out and that night curled up in somebody else's doorway, and he came home in a bad mood.

I ate some oysters I dug up myself. I felt very hot and shaky and strange, and everybody in the shop was looking at me, and I kept trying to tell them that I'd be all right in a minute, but I just couldn't get it out.

I never woke up as the fumes snaked into my room.

I stood yelling as he stabbed me again and again.

I shot up the bag as soon as I got home, but thought it smelled funny when I cooked it.

I was asleep in the park when these kids came by.

I crawled out the window and felt sick looking down, so I just threw myself out and looked up as I fell.

I thought I could get warm by burning some newspaper in a soup pot.

I went to pieces very slowly and was happy when it finally stopped.

I thought the train was going way too fast, but I kept on reading.

I let this guy pick me up at the party, and sometime later we went off in his car.

I felt real sick, but the nurse thought I was kidding.

I jumped over to the other fire escape, but my foot slipped.

I thought I had time to cross the street.

I thought the floor would support my weight.

I thought nobody could touch me.

I never knew what hit me.

They put me in a bag.

They nailed me up in a box.

They walked me down Mulberry Street followed by altar boys and four priests under a canopy and everybody in the neighborhood singing the Libera Me Domine.*

They collected me in pieces all through the park.

They laid me in state under the rotunda for three days.

They engraved my name on the pediment.

They drew my collar up to my chin to hide the hole in my neck.

They laughed about me over baked meats and rye whiskey.

They didn’t know who I was when they fished me out and still don't know six months later.

They held my body for ransom and collected, but by that time they had burned it.

They never found me.

They threw me in the cement mixer.

They heaped all of us into a trench and stuck a monument on top.

They cut me up at the medical school.

They weighed down my ankles and tossed me in the drink.

They named a dormitory after me.

They gave speeches claiming I was some kind of tin saint.

They hauled me away in the ashman’s cart.

They put me on a boat and took me to an island.

They tried to keep my mother from throwing herself in after me.

They bought me my first suit and dressed me up in it.

They marched to City Hall holding candles and shouting my name.

They forgot all about me and took down my picture.

So give my eyes to the eye bank, give my blood to the blood bank. Make my hair into switches, put my teeth into rattles, sell my heart to the junkman. Give my spleen to the mayor. Hook my lungs to an engine. Stretch my guts down the avenue. Stick my head on a pike, plug my spine to the third rail, throw my liver and lights to the winner. Grind my nails up with sage and camphor and sell it under the counter. Set my hands in the window as a reminder. Take my name from me and make it a verb. Think of me when you run out of money. Remember me when you fall on the sidewalk. Mention me when they ask you what happened.

I am everywhere under your feet.

The responsory in the absolution at the end of the of the pre-Vatican II Requiem Mass. The translated text in its entirety is: “Deliver me, O Lord, from eternal death on that extraordinary day when the heavens and the earth are moved, when you will come to judge the world by fire.”

Lucy SANTE’s books include Low Life (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003), The Factory of Facts (Granta, 1998), Kill All Your Darlings (Verse Chorus Press, 2007), and most recently The Other Paris (Faber & Faber, 2015).

‘The Unknown Soldier’ was written for an academic conference on urbanism where participants were invited to look at the city through the eyes of a persona; suggestions were an architect, a preservationist, a budget planner, et cetera—Sante decided to be a corpse.

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Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. 

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