Friday, September 18, 2009

In the dark I watched your teeth shine as you spoke. I could see you wondering about my folded hands, about the curve of my spine away from your space, but I couldn't tell you that in my mind I was fighting an image that kept rising up, unbidden, of you leaning over with those shiny teeth and biting open my eye. The image won, in the end, and I sat there writhing, almost feeling the slight resistance and plump watery pop, the taste of all the things I have seen coating your tongue. It wasn't fair, but I was always afraid of your teeth after that, flinching whenever your mouth drew too near.

What I remember most, though, is standing on the shore late one chilly night and watching the waves shatter against your shins. The broken droplets flung themselves to either side of you and hung in the air for a moment, considering, before dying on the sand just behind where you stood. Inside each of them, for just a second, hung a tiny moon.

(PS, if you want to read about how Elvis Perkins in Dearland charmed my pants off--not actually, but very nearly--at Bumbershoot, you can do so here.)

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