Maggie put her ear to the door and listened. She heard her heart beating in her ears and nothing else. She tried the door handle, it was unlocked. The scent of cream and fish lingered in the darkness. She crept silently to the bedroom, by feel. The place hadn't changed much. When the floor boards creaked, she stopped and stood still for a solid minute, listening for sounds of movement. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, there was no light on inside. She pushed the door and held her breath. She searched the darkness for his form lying in bed, but it was was empty.
"Shit."
*
Maggie watched in her car from across the street for the girl to leave his house. He wouldn't spend the night with her, he never did. She drifted off during the third repeat of her entire music selection and did not notice the woman slip out. When she woke up, the lights were out. Maggie shifted and stretched and immediately looked for the place the woman's car had been. She looked at the dash for the time, hours had gone by. Good she thought. This time she crept around back, slipping through the gate alerted the neighbor's dog, she jumped at the slobbering growl. "Shhhhh." The dog let out a string of barking expletives, she could swear it was saying "slut". "Asshole." She said, safely behind the shield of the fence. From the back yard, she could see his bedroom window. The lights were out there too.
As she approached the low laundry-room window, a spiderweb wrapped around her face. She felt the tingly sensations all over her body of a million spiders crawling on her skin. She shivered and contorted spastic and repulsed, patting herself down and completely forgetting her mission. The neighbor's dog started up on another round of expletives. "Damn it." Maggie whispered. She squatted low beneath the window and closed her eyes. After a few moments, once the dog had shut up, Maggie jiggled the window. The screen came down on and bounced off her head, a corner scraped the flesh that was exposed on her lower back as she squatted there. "Ouch." Before she could assess the injury, she heard the cold metal cock of a gun.
"Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my back yard?"
*
Maggie frequented the pub she knew he sometimes visited. If this was going to work, he'd have to be pissed. She sat in the back facing the entrance and waited. She had a steely determined grip on her drink. She didn't hear the first time he spoke.
"Maggie!"
She blinked, not recognizing who it was, "What?"
"You were totally zoned out there, girl."
He was blocking her view of the door now.
"Yeah." She said trying to look around him.
"Do you remember me?"
Maggie was annoyed, she sighed and looked up. "Holy shit! Tom? What are you doing here?"
"You didn't hear? Damn, no wonder you haven't called. My mom passed away."
"On no! I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"Well, I'm just glad she's not suffering anymore..."
Maggie was calculating how long she would have to talk to him before it would be appropriate to look around the room for her target. She tuned out Tom and watched his mouth moving. Her mind flashed back to kissing that mouth, she remembered his sour breath and the warm way he fucked. She could almost have forgotten her plan. She was sure Tom would go home with her if she made him feel welcome.
"So, weren't you in, like, Iraq or something? They let you come home for the funeral?"
Tom looked at her and shook his head. "Never mind Mags..."
"No. Tom, I'm sorry, I was just looking for someone."
"Yeah, I can tell."
"You could have called me, Tom."
"I'll remember that next time."
The anger and that flashed in his eyes as he turned to go made her want to fuck him, and not just out of sympathy. She got up to follow Tom outside. As she did he walked in the door. The one she'd been looking for. She felt a fluttering madness deep down in her guts. Turning quick on her heel she went into the lady's room and entered a stall. She was so nervous, she almost expected him to follow her inside, she fumbled with the lock on the door and sat down on the toilet with her hands pressed into her face. There was no going back out there. She checked the window in the ladies room, it had bars. "Damn it!" Maggie went back to her stall and sat down. She picked up her feet when she heard the door open. Two people came in, stone drunk, slobbering all over themselves. Seriously? Fucking whores. Maggie shook her head silently.
"Condom."
Maggie could hear the package tearing and the rippling plastic sound of it being applied. She gagged.
"Can you?"
Maggie closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her ears but she could still hear the sounds echoing off the tiles.
There was a shuddering thud on the rickety metal stall next to her.
"Ouch."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh shit."
"Huh?"
"No, really, SHIT."
"Oh my God. That's fucking sick."
"Lets go somewhere else...cleaner."
"Um, yeah."
Maggie bit down on her lip, hard, so she wouldn't laugh out loud. She let out an inside out snort instead, when the door closed she put her feet down on the ground and let herself guffaw. Idiots. She thought. The thought of sitting in the bathroom all night made her suddenly angry. Why was she hiding? It should be the other way around. She found the courage to peek out the ladies room door. As she did, she was nearly bowled over by a fat girl with mascara smeared down her face.
"I'm sorry." The girl sniffed.
"Don't worry about it."
Maggie wasn't about to stick around for blubbering from the fat girl, so she made her exit. She glanced around the pub quickly, trying not to be too obvious. There was no sign of him. In the parking lot, she didn't see his car.
"Damn."
*
When Maggie entered his room, her eyes lit on fire when she saw that he was asleep, alone in his bed. He slept in the nude, she knew for a fact. She slipped off her shoes and tip-toed to his bed and pulled back his covers. He stirred and turned over on his side. His flaccid dick lolled over, it was just how she remembered. She crept over him and her mouth watered. With her knees in his back, she bent over him and propped herself on her elbows. She turned her head slightly and slid her lips down his dick. It was soft and salty. She gagged slightly, thinking about what vagina had been around it last. Or worse. Now was not the time for chickening out. She buried all thoughts of micro-organisms deep down in her gullet and braced herself. She took a deep breath and sucked his dick into her mouth sideways. The head pressed against the inside of her cheek. He went hard in seconds. Maggie was pleased with herself. He must have been expecting someone, or dreaming, he wasn't alarmed that she was in his bed, and she knew he had to be partially awake.
"Oh. God. Don't stop." He said.
Everything was going according to plan. She remembered exactly what made his body come alive. She knew every vein, every curve of his skin. His eyes were closed in an agony as she pressed and and licked and sucked him, hungry to please him. She could feel the panic in his breath, the desperation for her to let him finish, to drink it all down. It took longer than she remembered. When he was pulsing, she pressed a knee on his shoulder and let all her weight down on it as she swung her other leg around him, hiking her skirt up in the same motion.
"Ow! Christ!" He opened his eyes and looked up at her. A look of panic washed over his face. Maggie smiled and drew an elegant knife from a holster on her thigh. She laid the blade across his throat and shifted downward. With the blade on his throat, she slid onto his dick with a muffled groan.
"You crazy bitch."
"Shut the fuck up." She said pressing the knife down on his windpipe. His hands gently gripped her wrists and she imagined their warmth on her breasts, touching her, wanting her. It was too much, two hot tears fell from her eyes, she heard the tiny splashes on his chest and she sniffed hard as she thrust, all the synapses of her brain were firing. She fucked him, cold and angry. She didn't anticipate how good it would feel, raping him. She didn't anticipate the pleasure of taking what she wanted. Like a low rumbling thunder, she felt her muscles contract, exquisitly flooding her body with waves of pleasure. She stared down at him and felt him ejaculate inside her. This was also unexpected. She paused and let go of the knife.
*
In some versions of her fantasy, she plunged the blade into his throat sideways and ripped it up, severing every chord. But that was just a fantasy. In real life, she couldn't have hurt him. She hated him too much.
Dedicated to Margaret Atwood
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Breathe
The studio door loomed above like the moon. Hetta had come inside a small courtyard through a heavy wooden and wrought-iron gate. Imported stones in mosaic lined the corridor. There were three steps up to the door, that had a brass name plate engraved: D. Greggory Stitt. Hetta was nervous as she reached up to knock on the door. The heavy perfume of linseed oil and espresso assaulted her senses as she walked inside. She stood for a moment inside and adjusted her skirt. The first thing she noticed was a portrait of a woman, hair pulled into a scarf, eyes cast down. It was exquisite, there was no trace of the charcoal strokes on paper. There were no impressions on the fine cotton fibers. It was like the image was breathed onto paper in an ecstasy.
“Are you a dancer?”
“No.”
“An athlete?”
“No.”
“How in the hell did you manage to get such nice legs?” He said it with such an easy smile, it didn't feel like flirting.
The girl blushed and looked down, in doing so she admired her legs.
"This next part is tedious, I'm going to have you sit here in this chair, but I'll probably have you getting up and down a lot until we find the right pose."
"Alright." Hetta was shy and unsure of herself. She had met Greggory Stitt but this was the first time she had ever been alone in the same room with him.
“Turn to the right, no, not that much. There, that's good, now tilt your head slightly toward the wall. Good, stay right there. Wait, can you open your lips, just slightly? Good. You are a natural. Hold that pose."
There was a long void of silence where the only sound was Greggory's slow, steady breathing. The yellow sunlight filtered through the high windows and bathed Hetta's face in an astral glow. As Hetta sat, still as a statue, her eyes couldn't help but wander to a collection of canvasses stacked against the far wall. The silky flesh of sprawling nude women looked almost touchable. As she relaxed, she could almost imagine the bodies lifting off the canvass. They were so life-like, Hetta imagined them breathing. The Sun's light was burning orange and warm, threatening to disappear over the horizon.
***
The light of a full moon was pouring through the window, it was almost as bright as dusk. Greggory was sitting in his chair in shadow, beneath the window.
“Take off your clothes.”
Hetta laughed awkwardly. “What?”
“Take off your clothes. I promise I won't touch you, just stand here in front of the window.”
Hetta's heart beat hard against her chest. She had never taken her clothes off in front of anyone before. She wasn't sure why she did it, but she pulled her shirt over her head. She felt empowered by the muffled thump it made as it hit the floor. She unhooked her bra, though her hands were shaking, she managed to slide her skirt off and step out with confidence. As she stood there in the light of the moon, the thought occurred to her that she may be in danger. The air felt like water on her skin. She felt like she was floating in mid air, enveloped in a robe of darkness. Being naked felt new and strangely unfamiliar.
“Turn to the side. Alright, now turn around all the way. Good God, you are lovely. Thank you. You can put your clothes back on.”
Hetta smiled in the darkness.
***
Hetta was driving home when she first noticed her hands going numb. She opened and closed her hands, there was a tingly sensation that made her sick to her stomach. The dark roads were twisty and black and Hetta felt out of control. She eased off the gas pedal and took a deep breath. The fear and paranoia she had known as a little girl came to her in the penetrating darkness. She felt small and vulnerable, imagining horrible things happening in the black night. The tall pines loomed over her, standing sentinel to unknowable things. Flashing horrors emerged, unbidden. She wondered how many bodies could be decomposing just under the surface, not far from where she was.
That night, Hetta dreamed that she was lying on the floor of Greggory's Studio. Greggory lay beside her dangling some sparkling bauble in her peripheral vision, but she was focused on his features. His body was warm and convincing. She watched his face as he spoke, unable to make out what he was saying. When she woke up, the comforting warmth still clung to her skin. As she thought of the dream, she felt a combination of warmth and forboding.
***
"I'm not quite ready for you Hetta, would you mind waiting, just a minute? Feel free to look at whatever books you'd like. I've got to run and grab a coffee. Would you like anything?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine."
The studio seemed larger without Greggory there. Hetta hadn't noticed before how tall the ceilings where. She gazed casually at the wall of books and chose one with the words "Waterhouse" on the binding. She flipped through the pages carelessly and then she noticed something familiar out of the corner of her eye. Behind stacks of canvasses, a hand sticking out. She couldn't pin it down, but she knew it was familiar. She walked over and started leafing through and there at the end was a moonlit body that she recognized as her own. A nearly photographic quality piece. It was impossible.
"Hetta?"
Hetta was so startled to hear her name that she jumped back, and in doing so, let 3 canvasses fall in clumsy succession onto the ground. When Greggory saw the scene unfold, his face fell into a storm. Hetta's cheeks burned.
"I'm so sorry, I just, I thought." Hetta bent over to try and put the artwork back in order.
"Please don't touch anything! No! Let me." Greggory carefully picked up the paintings and inspected each one.
"I am very sorry." Hetta repeated.
She waited for Greggory to explain the moonlit piece, but he was only muttering to himself. Hetta stayed near the wall so as not to touch anything, she made sure she was near the door as well, in case she needed to make a get away.
Suddenly, as if he had read her thoughts, Greggory's face lifted and smoothed out.
"No harm done. I will have to be more clear about the studio rules. Nobody touches my work. And the model chooses the music. Go ahead and find something while I set up."
Hetta carefully leafed through a stack of music and put in a Dead can Dance CD. She took her place, wide eyed and unsteady.
"Good choice." Greggory said, almost automatically. "Listen, I'm sorry about being abrupt. Forgive an old man for being panicky about his work, alright?"
"Sure." Hetta smiled, though she wasn't sure why. "I'm sorry too."
"You've said. Now, can you please tilt your head forward, just a tad. Exactly. And look over in that direction, up at the clock. That is great."
"What made you decide to take off your clothes last time?" Greggory asked. He sounded disinterested.
"You did."
"No, I didn't. I didn't touch you. I just asked."
"I usually do what I'm told."
"Even when it's dangerous?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Hetta, you really should be more careful. People can be unpredictable."
"Is it me, over there? In that painting?"
"What painting?" He said, smiling slightly.
"The one I was looking at when you came in, the one with the moonlight?"
"You flatter yourself, Hetta."
Hetta took aback. "So, it isn't me?"
"Would you do it again?" Greggory asked?
"Do what?" Hetta knew exactly what.
"Take off your clothes."
"No."
"No? Really?" Greggory's eyebrows shot up.
"No, and now you are creeping me out."
Greggory let out a musical guffaw which strangely put Hetta at ease. "Now, I think I adore you Hetta."
Hetta warmed at the thought of being adored.
***
The waning moon was still bright and luminous through the high studio window. Greggory had not moved from his place beneath the window.
"Take off your clothes."
Hetta swallowed. Her numb hands blistered against her clothes as she pulled her sweater over her head. She could hear Greggory's slow, steady breathing as she tossed her clothes in a little heap on the floor. The cool, watery air enveloped her again and she stood in the light of the moon once more. She noticed the tingly feeling immediately, this time. It radiated from her wrists to her shoulders, and then there was a cold electric feeling in her chest.
"Breathe." Greggory's voice seemed to take a long time to travel to her and the sound crackled and shuddered as if it were traveling through water.
"Oh, I don't feel so well." Hetta heard the words echo as she said them.
"Breathe." The crackly voice reverberated deeper and warped.
"I have to sit down." Hetta's own voice was echo-y and weak.
"Just breathe." Greggory said as he moved toward her.
As the darkness descended, Hetta felt molecules of herself distend and spray outward. She felt the world tip over and creak as she slowly disappeared, into the ether.
“Are you a dancer?”
“No.”
“An athlete?”
“No.”
“How in the hell did you manage to get such nice legs?” He said it with such an easy smile, it didn't feel like flirting.
The girl blushed and looked down, in doing so she admired her legs.
"This next part is tedious, I'm going to have you sit here in this chair, but I'll probably have you getting up and down a lot until we find the right pose."
"Alright." Hetta was shy and unsure of herself. She had met Greggory Stitt but this was the first time she had ever been alone in the same room with him.
“Turn to the right, no, not that much. There, that's good, now tilt your head slightly toward the wall. Good, stay right there. Wait, can you open your lips, just slightly? Good. You are a natural. Hold that pose."
There was a long void of silence where the only sound was Greggory's slow, steady breathing. The yellow sunlight filtered through the high windows and bathed Hetta's face in an astral glow. As Hetta sat, still as a statue, her eyes couldn't help but wander to a collection of canvasses stacked against the far wall. The silky flesh of sprawling nude women looked almost touchable. As she relaxed, she could almost imagine the bodies lifting off the canvass. They were so life-like, Hetta imagined them breathing. The Sun's light was burning orange and warm, threatening to disappear over the horizon.
***
The light of a full moon was pouring through the window, it was almost as bright as dusk. Greggory was sitting in his chair in shadow, beneath the window.
“Take off your clothes.”
Hetta laughed awkwardly. “What?”
“Take off your clothes. I promise I won't touch you, just stand here in front of the window.”
Hetta's heart beat hard against her chest. She had never taken her clothes off in front of anyone before. She wasn't sure why she did it, but she pulled her shirt over her head. She felt empowered by the muffled thump it made as it hit the floor. She unhooked her bra, though her hands were shaking, she managed to slide her skirt off and step out with confidence. As she stood there in the light of the moon, the thought occurred to her that she may be in danger. The air felt like water on her skin. She felt like she was floating in mid air, enveloped in a robe of darkness. Being naked felt new and strangely unfamiliar.
“Turn to the side. Alright, now turn around all the way. Good God, you are lovely. Thank you. You can put your clothes back on.”
Hetta smiled in the darkness.
***
Hetta was driving home when she first noticed her hands going numb. She opened and closed her hands, there was a tingly sensation that made her sick to her stomach. The dark roads were twisty and black and Hetta felt out of control. She eased off the gas pedal and took a deep breath. The fear and paranoia she had known as a little girl came to her in the penetrating darkness. She felt small and vulnerable, imagining horrible things happening in the black night. The tall pines loomed over her, standing sentinel to unknowable things. Flashing horrors emerged, unbidden. She wondered how many bodies could be decomposing just under the surface, not far from where she was.
That night, Hetta dreamed that she was lying on the floor of Greggory's Studio. Greggory lay beside her dangling some sparkling bauble in her peripheral vision, but she was focused on his features. His body was warm and convincing. She watched his face as he spoke, unable to make out what he was saying. When she woke up, the comforting warmth still clung to her skin. As she thought of the dream, she felt a combination of warmth and forboding.
***
"I'm not quite ready for you Hetta, would you mind waiting, just a minute? Feel free to look at whatever books you'd like. I've got to run and grab a coffee. Would you like anything?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine."
The studio seemed larger without Greggory there. Hetta hadn't noticed before how tall the ceilings where. She gazed casually at the wall of books and chose one with the words "Waterhouse" on the binding. She flipped through the pages carelessly and then she noticed something familiar out of the corner of her eye. Behind stacks of canvasses, a hand sticking out. She couldn't pin it down, but she knew it was familiar. She walked over and started leafing through and there at the end was a moonlit body that she recognized as her own. A nearly photographic quality piece. It was impossible.
"Hetta?"
Hetta was so startled to hear her name that she jumped back, and in doing so, let 3 canvasses fall in clumsy succession onto the ground. When Greggory saw the scene unfold, his face fell into a storm. Hetta's cheeks burned.
"I'm so sorry, I just, I thought." Hetta bent over to try and put the artwork back in order.
"Please don't touch anything! No! Let me." Greggory carefully picked up the paintings and inspected each one.
"I am very sorry." Hetta repeated.
She waited for Greggory to explain the moonlit piece, but he was only muttering to himself. Hetta stayed near the wall so as not to touch anything, she made sure she was near the door as well, in case she needed to make a get away.
Suddenly, as if he had read her thoughts, Greggory's face lifted and smoothed out.
"No harm done. I will have to be more clear about the studio rules. Nobody touches my work. And the model chooses the music. Go ahead and find something while I set up."
Hetta carefully leafed through a stack of music and put in a Dead can Dance CD. She took her place, wide eyed and unsteady.
"Good choice." Greggory said, almost automatically. "Listen, I'm sorry about being abrupt. Forgive an old man for being panicky about his work, alright?"
"Sure." Hetta smiled, though she wasn't sure why. "I'm sorry too."
"You've said. Now, can you please tilt your head forward, just a tad. Exactly. And look over in that direction, up at the clock. That is great."
"What made you decide to take off your clothes last time?" Greggory asked. He sounded disinterested.
"You did."
"No, I didn't. I didn't touch you. I just asked."
"I usually do what I'm told."
"Even when it's dangerous?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Hetta, you really should be more careful. People can be unpredictable."
"Is it me, over there? In that painting?"
"What painting?" He said, smiling slightly.
"The one I was looking at when you came in, the one with the moonlight?"
"You flatter yourself, Hetta."
Hetta took aback. "So, it isn't me?"
"Would you do it again?" Greggory asked?
"Do what?" Hetta knew exactly what.
"Take off your clothes."
"No."
"No? Really?" Greggory's eyebrows shot up.
"No, and now you are creeping me out."
Greggory let out a musical guffaw which strangely put Hetta at ease. "Now, I think I adore you Hetta."
Hetta warmed at the thought of being adored.
***
The waning moon was still bright and luminous through the high studio window. Greggory had not moved from his place beneath the window.
"Take off your clothes."
Hetta swallowed. Her numb hands blistered against her clothes as she pulled her sweater over her head. She could hear Greggory's slow, steady breathing as she tossed her clothes in a little heap on the floor. The cool, watery air enveloped her again and she stood in the light of the moon once more. She noticed the tingly feeling immediately, this time. It radiated from her wrists to her shoulders, and then there was a cold electric feeling in her chest.
"Breathe." Greggory's voice seemed to take a long time to travel to her and the sound crackled and shuddered as if it were traveling through water.
"Oh, I don't feel so well." Hetta heard the words echo as she said them.
"Breathe." The crackly voice reverberated deeper and warped.
"I have to sit down." Hetta's own voice was echo-y and weak.
"Just breathe." Greggory said as he moved toward her.
As the darkness descended, Hetta felt molecules of herself distend and spray outward. She felt the world tip over and creak as she slowly disappeared, into the ether.
Have Faith
"Have faith."
When he said it, the words pressed into my palms, like coins. Since then I've measured all virtuous currency. I've checked it against a balance sheet. I know how much it costs to cross the line. I know how much I earn for grieving. Annuities paid out for never questioning. Nose to the grindstone, I'll have enough by the end of next year.
When I have enough, I will cross the Rubicon. All my rabid sins will find me.
When he said it, the words pressed into my palms, like coins. Since then I've measured all virtuous currency. I've checked it against a balance sheet. I know how much it costs to cross the line. I know how much I earn for grieving. Annuities paid out for never questioning. Nose to the grindstone, I'll have enough by the end of next year.
When I have enough, I will cross the Rubicon. All my rabid sins will find me.
Harpies
They feed on weakness,
gathering the bits and pieces,
stringing the fleshy chords together,
pulling them taught.
Nurturing nothing,
their breasts hang vacant.
Acidic and bitter.
Brittle momentary alliances unfaithfully end.
Recreational generosity addles to poison.
All they know is destruction
All they see is the pulsing
threat of the jugular,
aching to strike at the
soft and vulnerable.
gathering the bits and pieces,
stringing the fleshy chords together,
pulling them taught.
Nurturing nothing,
their breasts hang vacant.
Acidic and bitter.
Brittle momentary alliances unfaithfully end.
Recreational generosity addles to poison.
All they know is destruction
All they see is the pulsing
threat of the jugular,
aching to strike at the
soft and vulnerable.
Lotus eaters
Parched litmus strips, forgetful pregnant muzzles
kindle a dreary kind of apathy.
Swabs of anesthetic moisten and evaporate.
The torrid heat demobilizes,
winds of fantasy swell up inside.
Internal burns and ripping tides
unite with halothane embers and dust.
The brighter dark gets hazy.
Pools of nothingness subdue.
Little flickers of knowing subside.
Breaths loosen and drown in the thick, thick air.
Like rotating waterless eels, writhing to return,
smothered and gasping, pulled back to the shore
aching for the warm amnesic cradle...
They morn the blooming enchantress, tangled in the oars.
kindle a dreary kind of apathy.
Swabs of anesthetic moisten and evaporate.
The torrid heat demobilizes,
winds of fantasy swell up inside.
Internal burns and ripping tides
unite with halothane embers and dust.
The brighter dark gets hazy.
Pools of nothingness subdue.
Little flickers of knowing subside.
Breaths loosen and drown in the thick, thick air.
Like rotating waterless eels, writhing to return,
smothered and gasping, pulled back to the shore
aching for the warm amnesic cradle...
They morn the blooming enchantress, tangled in the oars.
Venus Di Milo
Upon matriculating, her parting gift was a pair of combat boots.
Artemis was jealous, Athena loathed her.
Off to war she flew on a comet of enthusiasm.
While other women danced heady in full bloom,
sweating through the darkest part of the night,
She laid low, hair pulled back, breasts pushed flat
against her chest, bathed in cold sweat and dust.
At first light the rocketing sounds of the machines
tore through her delicate maternal fears.
Her empty womb sliced painfully at her brazen heart.
She was resolved at dusk, when she saw the vacant bodies of
children, sprawled out, broken.
Athena had no sympathy, fate blew the boots clean off.
Blood and limbs flayed, her eyes closed, parallel with the horizon.
Empty days and nights pass in black silence,
She woke to sound of the tidal moon, the aching of her womb.
She reached out with nothing.
An echo of her arms, with itchy, ghostly pain—sheered off at the Humerus and Acromion bones—was jarring and ominous.
The first thing she mourned was the idea
of never holding a child.
Artemis was jealous, Athena loathed her.
Off to war she flew on a comet of enthusiasm.
While other women danced heady in full bloom,
sweating through the darkest part of the night,
She laid low, hair pulled back, breasts pushed flat
against her chest, bathed in cold sweat and dust.
At first light the rocketing sounds of the machines
tore through her delicate maternal fears.
Her empty womb sliced painfully at her brazen heart.
She was resolved at dusk, when she saw the vacant bodies of
children, sprawled out, broken.
Athena had no sympathy, fate blew the boots clean off.
Blood and limbs flayed, her eyes closed, parallel with the horizon.
Empty days and nights pass in black silence,
She woke to sound of the tidal moon, the aching of her womb.
She reached out with nothing.
An echo of her arms, with itchy, ghostly pain—sheered off at the Humerus and Acromion bones—was jarring and ominous.
The first thing she mourned was the idea
of never holding a child.
Midnight Mass
Shivering in the bitter small hours, the coldness cut through like razored whips. Penance precedes absolution. The lights are dim inside my cathedral, the one I've chosen to visit first on this, the highest of holy days. It is the worst sin to cut the line, the faithful will taunt and jeer, acidic spittle dripping from their frozen tongues. The lights flicker on, with minutes to go the faithful shift and buzz with prayers on their lips and fists close to their hearts. Absolution, ecstasy in moments. In moments we'll rush into the glittering sanctuary, full to bursting with emphatic rapture, the joy that comes once a year.
The doors open and we inhale deep, bodies alive with adrenaline, we push and shove our way in the doors. Clamoring to grab and touch the images of our gods. Filling our baskets with sparkling jewels: Electronics! Toys! Pajamas! Our souls are filled, and eyes are brimming with tears. Hallelujah!
The doors open and we inhale deep, bodies alive with adrenaline, we push and shove our way in the doors. Clamoring to grab and touch the images of our gods. Filling our baskets with sparkling jewels: Electronics! Toys! Pajamas! Our souls are filled, and eyes are brimming with tears. Hallelujah!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)