Because Williamson, Tennessee reported its first coronavirus case
I fly to Tennessee Williams’ 1936 Corona Jr. model, seeing him
hunched over, fingers furious, flying over St. Louis, Memphis,
New Orleans, pounding his feet to catch the trolleys and streetcars
long before he patented the imprint of death and resurrection he
called “Desire,” singing out in the street: corones para los muertes
and calling too flores para los muertos, leaving it to us to puzzle
whether these are wreaths for the doomed or halos of the ascendant,
crown of victory, augury of rot. All we know is something illicit
occurred. There is no virgin birth here, Blanche is escorted by some
gentlemen callers off to the madhouse as Stella’s baby issues birth-cries.
What neurotic transcendence, what fortunate fall, what arrogance to
catch a streetcar, to look at the baby, in the bold death-stare of day?