About Me
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Full Body Massage
He will be more difficult to satisfy than a man who only thinks he is a bull. That is Sunny’s opinion and she’s an expert. I keep my opinion to myself. I’ve not been in this country long enough to speak. With my diary, though, I’m fearless, and in my dreams, I revel in inexcusable deeds. He is as large as a love seat. We peer at him from the common room, huddled behind the door giggling, and I think, but I don’t say, that he should never sit. Upright he will surely be striking, but perched on the cushion of the only chair in our little lounge, dangling his hat before his knees, he looks pathetic and obscene. His eyes don’t shift as we titter, but one hairy ear the size and shape of a large man’s cupped hand turns in our direction. I know who I am and what kind of man likes me, and I can tell, watching him paw the brim of his hat and flex the ropy muscles of his massive neck as he absolves our dingy room, that he’ll choose me, of all of us. I helped him from his coat in a close chamber meant only for people, and gasped at his acre of shirt, bright and wide as a ski slope. I came back when he had taken off the rest. A towel would not have covered him, so he had used a sheet—for me, I thought, to spare me what he could, and facedown he was sobbing. My little fists pattered across his shoulders like raindrops. To prove I didn’t mind, to thank him, I squeezed his tail in both my hands and told him, in the language of my dreams, of a time when everybody had been happy.
Have You Seen This Child
When the night voices tremble in your heart, so do you hear where each of us is, except for me, except for the one who doesn’t call. Your bed is damp with not knowing. Left to the black glass and right to your husband, you shake your head No all night. He barely moves, but for you, sleep is not peace while I go unfound. Last seen buying gum, I chew in all your dreams. It looks like closed-mouth speech. What are you so afraid to hear me say? The photo of me that’s making the rounds is getting old, me in black sweatshirt and hood with bright cheekbones and bright chin, otherwise swallowed in darkness and yet a good likeness. Hands from the margins reach out to help or molest me. There couldn’t be a bigger difference between our lives. I used to be the one who lay awake at night sick to death of life. You’ll say that I should call and explain, but would it comfort you to hear my explanation? It never did when you were my mother. What does your husband think? I’m not looking for you, is what I’m trying to say, and you should stop looking for me. It’s winter and I’m thinking of heading south where this shirt I’ve grown fond of will be warm enough for the chilly nights that seem to bring out the stars. I’ll find family where I go or do without. Shall I tell you the lesson of my travels since leaving home? It’s about how stars in constellations are unrelated and only appear to cluster because of where we stand. Do you like it? Come out and look. I’m just outside your window where I’ve always been, wondering how to reach you in your bed
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