#13 (319 words)

She lacks teeth and fullness. Her skin creased like yellowed linen but I began to love those hiding places, pockets of seventy year old sunlight, tears, evidence she smiled, slept, worked, grieved. She lacks fullness, but she is living and a real thing. Hair mostly sandy but those brilliant bouquets of silver. Queenly crown, angelic halo. She does not know how pure she is, purified by the fire of loneliness, constraint, being locked up. Broken into. Broken, put together. Broken. Put together again.


She gives me her sadness. She shows me her tears, talks about how diamonds are formed. Gives her humiliation to me. I love her for these gifts, so freely gives her memories to me. And when I leave her, the greatness of those wet eyes, their leaking sinks into the lines of her skin, her memories I take with me, go out to the car, masturbate.

How stunning she is, and her stout hands that have worked in dirt, fixed pipes. Wrung themselves translucent, rough, over young boys, her boys, her men. Always warm. Made of birch bark. Smelling of moist clean soil turned, open, waiting for seeds, pushed deep, watered, bloody red petals. She is virtuous. I desire her virtuousness. Not her frail body or its warmth but those secret places that are black and sucking. More secret, black, sacred than her physical body which is dying as mine is dying. Like we all are dying.

I sit next to her under the sun, wings of birds, the shadow of God. Feast on her dark secrets. Violations. Despair. I live here at her mouth, hover close. Her voice is low holy magic. Finger the back of her neck. I quiver at her crying eyes looking up at mine that have teeth, tongue, are ravenous.

I will kill me, she says.

How? My heart licks its lips.

Cord of the blinds in my room.

lovelike  (Copyright 2009)

~ by c on March 16, 2009.

2 Responses to “#13 (319 words)”

  1. was NOT expecting that.
    what happened upon arrival to the car, i mean.
    holy smokes.

  2. To echo Jane: Holy smokes is right.
    No shit.


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