We looked everywhere, followed a cloud, spoke in tongues, gave the lady behind the counter a peso, told her coins from Asia are worth more. They're smarter over there, they use grocery bags as umbrellas when it rains, plastic handles over ears, makes them smart. We miss this. We looked everywhere for signs in the sky, stars, meteors, bullets pelting the roof at new year's eve. Father loves his machine guns. He says: Rattatat… Rattatat! the heavens! We can't let them forget us down here…This is why we do bad things.
We looked everywhere, inner insides of your vanity case, lipstick stains meet charcoal meet eye-lashes with glue still on them, meet bandaids and secret compartments behind a small mirror. We find it there, folded and delicate as snowflake, written in Chinese, your name smudged with thousand year old ink and teardrops meet paper, meet yellow, yellow like the bullet that pierced through the ceiling. And he is laughing, laughing. And the angels are quiet, quiet.
We looked everywhere... I couldn't find it. I had woken up knowing something had gone missing; I could feel it in my soul. Where did it go? How could I find it? I enlisted the help of others who shuffled around, looking halfheartedly, not knowing what to do.
As I searched I began to think about it, realizing I didn't even know what I was looking for. All I knew was that I had woken up with a gaping hole in my soul. I knew a chunk of something had gone missing in the middle of the night but I knew not what. How could I expect others to assist? If I didn't know what I was looking for, how could I expect them to?
I sent them home and prepared to search for the thing that would make me whole again, that idea, that feeling, that connection that would heal my soul.
We looked everywhere for it. Her blanket. She would not sleep without it. We looked everywhere, every night. And the looking became the ritual. It starts with the invocation, "It is bedtime, little bit." We move onto to the supplication, "Where is bluey?". And prayers, "Let us find this before we are too tired". And finally, when the blanket is found we have benediction, "By the grace of all that is holy."
Each night the same searching that has become ritual, that became the myth. The ritual of looking of the one thing to make us whole. That bit of her that was missing became the bit of us that was missing as well.
We looked everywhere, every night. Some nights left us empty handed and exhausted, near tears and asking why. Others were joyous and we saw the wonder of the universe. All from the hunt, the mythical hunt. All wrapped up in a blanket that was starting to smell.
We looked everywhere for it, the personal, spiritual, mythical. Everywhere, every night.
We looked everywhere for money...old purses, polka dot pigs on the vanity, coat pockets, but there wasn't any spare change to pay the paperboy, so Mother wrote a check. The freckle-faced boy took it. And we closed the door on our poverty, our shame, what happens when a man dies and females are left in a mid-century world not yet formed to be merciful. And it would not have mattered, any charity, she would not have taken it, so we starved for repairs to appliances and hung the laundry out, ate only baloney and chipped beef or just potatoes. Still, she spent the loan from my uncle on prom dresses that no one really wanted, doll clothes for her emissaries to the future, a future with men, who she was convinced were the only ticket to keep a family on a steady keel. Off I went in a green Lincoln Continental with a timber broker's hormonal son, my fuchsia-colored, spaghetti-strapped formal making a cloud whenever I sat down. And I fought off the boy intent on sex because he knew nothing except that I was poor and safe, a girl he thought willing. But I fought and let the dress with yards of taffeta and netting rise like a wall beyond my dark moat. He eventually quit because he was not sure how much my athletic arms might do in defense of my dress. And not once did I wonder what life would have been like in luxury cars driven by a boy who couldn't dance and grabbed a girl like she was a deep pile towel in his bathroom. The towels in my house were thin and worn. My first car cost under two hundred dollars. My houses for many years were rentals. My dresses came from clearance sale racks, but I made choices in a world still fumbling for merciful outcomes for women.
We looked everywhere for the peppermint floss we loved so well.
It grips the tiny particles of food wedged between our teeth. The taste of peppermint lingering on lips bruised from kissing. Powdery residue from the rope making our fingers taste sweet.
There is something about your mouth, teeth so clean that you can see the empty spaces between them. I have a new sexual dental fantasy that requires you to be subservient to me.
I thoroughly wash my hands, scrubbing my nail beds, carefully drying my hands.
You sit upright against the headboard. I straddle you, your lips slack and open to me. My fingers are numb from floss wrapped tightly around my fingers.
My hands reach in and out of your mouth, each crevice examined carefully before moving on to the next, in and out, in and out and so on.
I want so badly to stop the game and kiss you. Almost reluctantly, I proceed until each tooth has felt my caress.
5 comments:
We looked everywhere, followed a cloud,
spoke in tongues, gave the lady behind
the counter a peso, told her coins from
Asia are worth more. They're smarter over
there, they use grocery bags as umbrellas
when it rains, plastic handles over ears, makes
them smart. We miss this. We looked everywhere
for signs in the sky, stars, meteors, bullets pelting
the roof at new year's eve. Father loves his
machine guns. He says: Rattatat…
Rattatat! the heavens! We can't let them forget
us down here…This is why we do bad things.
We looked everywhere, inner insides of your
vanity case, lipstick stains meet charcoal
meet eye-lashes with glue still on them,
meet bandaids and secret compartments
behind a small mirror. We find it there, folded
and delicate as snowflake, written in Chinese,
your name smudged with thousand year old ink
and teardrops meet paper, meet yellow, yellow like the
bullet that pierced through the ceiling. And he
is laughing, laughing. And the angels are quiet, quiet.
We looked everywhere... I couldn't find it. I had woken up knowing something had gone missing; I could feel it in my soul. Where did it go? How could I find it? I enlisted the help of others who shuffled around, looking halfheartedly, not knowing what to do.
As I searched I began to think about it, realizing I didn't even know what I was looking for. All I knew was that I had woken up with a gaping hole in my soul. I knew a chunk of something had gone missing in the middle of the night but I knew not what. How could I expect others to assist? If I didn't know what I was looking for, how could I expect them to?
I sent them home and prepared to search for the thing that would make me whole again, that idea, that feeling, that connection that would heal my soul.
We looked everywhere for it. Her blanket. She would not sleep without it. We looked everywhere, every night. And the looking became the ritual. It starts with the invocation, "It is bedtime, little bit." We move onto to the supplication, "Where is bluey?". And prayers, "Let us find this before we are too tired". And finally, when the blanket is found we have benediction, "By the grace of all that is holy."
Each night the same searching that has become ritual, that became the myth. The ritual of looking of the one thing to make us whole. That bit of her that was missing became the bit of us that was missing as well.
We looked everywhere, every night. Some nights left us empty handed and exhausted, near tears and asking why. Others were joyous and we saw the wonder of the universe. All from the hunt, the mythical hunt. All wrapped up in a blanket that was starting to smell.
We looked everywhere for it, the personal, spiritual, mythical. Everywhere, every night.
We looked everywhere for money...old purses, polka dot pigs on the vanity, coat pockets, but there wasn't any spare change to pay the paperboy, so Mother wrote a check. The freckle-faced boy took it. And we closed the door on our poverty, our shame, what happens when a man dies and females are left in a mid-century world not yet formed to be merciful. And it would not have mattered, any charity, she would not have taken it, so we starved for repairs to appliances and hung the laundry out, ate only baloney and chipped beef or just potatoes. Still, she spent the loan from my uncle on prom dresses that no one really wanted, doll clothes for her emissaries to the future, a future with men, who she was convinced were the only ticket to keep a family on a steady keel. Off I went in a green Lincoln Continental with a timber broker's hormonal son, my fuchsia-colored, spaghetti-strapped formal making a cloud whenever I sat down. And I fought off the boy intent on sex because he knew nothing except that I was poor and safe, a girl he thought willing. But I fought and let the dress with yards of taffeta and netting rise like a wall beyond my dark moat. He eventually quit because he was not sure how much my athletic arms might do in defense of my dress. And not once did I wonder what life would have been like in luxury cars driven by a boy who couldn't dance and grabbed a girl like she was a deep pile towel in his bathroom. The towels in my house were thin and worn. My first car cost under two hundred dollars. My houses for many years were rentals. My dresses came from clearance sale racks, but I made choices in a world still fumbling for merciful outcomes for women.
We looked everywhere for the peppermint floss we loved so well.
It grips the tiny particles of food wedged between our teeth. The taste of peppermint lingering on lips bruised from kissing. Powdery residue from the rope making our fingers taste sweet.
There is something about your mouth, teeth so clean that you can see the empty spaces between them. I have a new sexual dental fantasy that requires you to be subservient to me.
I thoroughly wash my hands, scrubbing my nail beds, carefully drying my hands.
You sit upright against the headboard. I straddle you, your lips slack and open to me. My fingers are numb from floss wrapped tightly around my fingers.
My hands reach in and out of your mouth, each crevice examined carefully before moving on to the next, in and out, in and out and so on.
I want so badly to stop the game and kiss you. Almost reluctantly, I proceed until each tooth has felt my caress.
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