I felt quite a lot of love. And pleasure. Sometimes then I encounter the difficulty of impressing my whole soul upon a beloved. And always it is a failure. But always-never. It feels barely I’ve begun to sprout forth, barely having begun to gather together the imperial pearlescent fountain that there really is no need to ramp up the hose, she has understood. More
than understood she had peered into me and saw the text inside the text,
saw everything splayed out inside and outside the inverted commas. But no
splaying no sense of confession. No ‘beautiful blood.’ No lying atop the mortuary table. Peering in a peeled opened orange peel one kept whole and doubled in dimension.
Fruit skin. White pale yellow veins curling out and getting under the nails.
Both ways, peeled open and visible all sides. How so rarely can we ever dial up and get a connection without revelation, no telling the telephone girls whose office we’re trying to reach, whose bed we’re trying to borrow.
Well perhaps let’s not lose ourselves, Julia did a bit of confessing and it is always fun to play priest.The absolution. But that wasn’t the motor that turned us. Perhaps no, it was our own private confession. The big phrase passed back and forth between the chambers of the mouth, warm and chewed. We masticators, old friends are. So capable of rumination. Four stomachs to extract the energy from those tougher fibers of old slights, old grievances, old spit-warm music. Enzymes and microbes for healthier pH levels. A confession of love, but no secret anyway. We pass the cud back and forth without any extra effort of dragging up.
In the morning. I bring coffee and check the mail. The house is empty in the morning, as it will remain after I leave. Only the surveillance camera craning her satin neck, blinking to me the red petals of her eyes. I dump the molded blooms of coffee grounds in temporary bags. Have to travel to the conjoined bathroom where the last trash bag had been put out. Little trips I made. Shutting the doors so my friend could sleep some more.
Love has it ever been so sweet. Boil the water for the milk made out of powder. Stir. Twice. The powders like to swell and grow fat together on top. Stir them down. Too hot for him I think, tender mouth. Add in cold water from the broken tap, a diversion of the crystal stream bubbled out of the loosened rubber stopgap. The distributary flows over the fountainhead, sweeping up the accumulated dust. Two streams merged back into one now in the tin cup. The distributary reveals its past having beens in those fat layers of bigbubbled bigbellied dirt-touched foam. I scraped the head off with the spoon from a dirtied cup.
Tap bangtap.
In the sink, the foam sits,
whiter than the bleached ceramic. Falling water again. Lifting the inverted sink stopper and watching the liquids swirl down in a gurgle. The little things are easy to remember when I know one is asleep in bed, having been woken up and scolded, loved and turned back around. When one has in mind always the sleeping form turned around.
