Monday, January 25, 2010
My Death Lives Beneath Your Skirt
"Do you want another drink?" he said.
She tipped the nearly-empty glass to gauge it. "Boy. I don't know."
He grinned. "You can take it. I know you can."
"Sure. Why not?"
He motioned to the bartender. The guy was good. He knew how to keep the energies flowing without hovering.
"I think it's pretty cool that you're a poet," she said.
"Really? Kind of like the nerd-cool phenomenon?"
"Are you kidding? The whole tortured poet thing? So hot."
"You have strange tastes."
"Don't complain. It's working for you."
"Oh, I'm not. Believe me."
The new drinks arrived. She tossed aside the useless little straw. "Assuming one thing, of course."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"That you write about me."
He fidgeted. She didn't let him off the hook.
Perhaps the alcohol helped him flick up his eyes and become the dark aggressor. "Maybe I have."
The moment of surprise was cute on her lips.
"Well, not a whole poem. Not yet, at least."
He took a big hit of his drink. It burned his throat.
"For instance, a line popped into my head last night," he said. "Just a line. But it wouldn't let go of my brain. Thoughts kept falling into it. Churning around. All night."
"What was it?"
"I can't tell you."
"I not that drunk yet."
She sat back. Playful-exasperated.
She played with the rim of her drink for a while. He watched her fingertip. The red, red nail polish.
"What's it like?" she said after a while.
"Writing a poem. Conceiving it. Having it take over your mind."
He tried to find the words.
But they wouldn't come.
"Show me," she said.
His brow furrowed.
"Yeah, you can do it. Just close your eyes. Go on. Let yourself drift. Float away into that place you go."
He did what she asked.
And in the dark, the room swam under his feet. Slow currents. Like an ocean nap. A heartbeat fluid and sensuous.
Something brushed him under the table.
Her ankle probably. The table was small.
Creamsicle, he whispered, accepting the first word. And the rest came.
tasting the melting drops
like a trickle
down your thigh after you run
at least that's where I would be
after you run
and I would smooth in
while you watch
and your lips would part
a little more
that sharp breath would be mine
or it could be yours
and they gasp together
as knees bend back
everything falling inward
inward towards the darkness
and I would trail along the abyss
where I know I would never escape again
consumed as I consume you
open and deep
to my death
He opened his eyes. Like waking from a dream. Not entirely sure of what he had done.
"The line was, 'my death lives beneath your skirt,'" he said.
She looked unsteady. Ready to lose her balance.
"Check?" the bartender said, sliding the little folder between them.