Silence and the Word

by MaryAnne Mohanraj

  4.

  It was only after we broke up that I started writing her love poems. Love had changed to distress, and then to friendship—now we are closer than we ever were as lovers. We haven’t had sex in years, not just us. She has mostly lost interest in women, which distresses her. I was rarely interested in women other than her. Now I look at her, and I feel no piercing of desire. My heart does not race; my body does not grow tight in anticipation, the way it does for certain men. It is only on occasion, when we are sharing a bed, that I wake to find myself curled around her. And even then, only one time out of ten, or twenty, will my body notice hers, my skin begin to crave contact with hers. I lie still then, trying not to wake her, and with eyes closed remember what it is to have my fingers inside her, to have her breast in my mouth. How much of that rare desire is her actual presence, and how much is the memory of desire, the lingering scent of a lost year? Did it ever really exist at all? So I look at Karina and feel not desire, but pain that tightens my throat, that slows my heart to heavy beats. I look at her, and wonder what I have lost, what was, or might have been. I write to her, for her, and construct with the words an image of what could be, or could have been. In nine years with Kevin, I have learned at least a few things about loving. If I had known them when I met her… .

  5.

  We are generally easy with each other these days; we curl into each other while watching television; we can still share a bed. Karina has visited every year but one—though not for quite as long as she once did. She was here for three weeks this time, and despite minor irritations, I did not want her to leave. I took photo after photo of her this visit; last time, too. She doesn’t like most of them—she does not think that she looks beautiful enough in them. Aesthetics have always been important to her. Her favorite is overexposed and stark. I can see the appeal, but it is perhaps my least favorite. The woman in the photo is lovely, but when I look at it, I do not see the face, the body, that I love. All the details are erased, the specifics. What she sees as flaws, imperfections of skin or lips or flesh, I find unbearably attractive. I want to photograph her every day; now that she is untouchable, she seems perhaps more beautiful than ever. Now that she is separate from me, always at one remove, I want to engulf her. The urge to touch her consumes me; yet I can look at her and see nothing. Or everything. Her physical presence is laminated over with the idea of what could be, the memory of once was. Not long ago, in bed, I accidentally brushed my hand across her breast. She said, “Hey—you don’t get to do that anymore.” She was teasing. I started to cry. And as she pulled me close, apologizing, I tried to explain that it was not that I desired her, but that I couldn’t stand to be cut off from her, divided once more into two separate beings, never really touching again. She nestled my head against her chest; she stroked my hair. She told me again that she loved me. I held my breath and closed my eyes and listened to her heart beating in her chest. I felt the warm skin of her against my wet cheek. It was better than it had been in many years. It was almost enough.

  how should I protest?

  and see—it’s growing dark. the west

  has lost its shining sun; the stars

  are thickly clouded, dim at best.

  the cities burn, the dispossessed

  give up their will, and all their hope

  rests in the hands of those obsessed.

  we are so small, and each attest

  what cannot be denied: our loves

  surpass the others’ loves, when pressed.

  and all I ask are quiet nights of rest,

  my arms around your solid body,

  my head against your breathing chest.

  Mint in Your Throat

  You open the door and she’s standing there with ghosts in her eyes. Ghosts and tear tracks; her arms wrapped tight around her, fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arms. Standing there in her short skirt, with dirt on her long legs and muddy bare feet. She looks like someone who has forgotten how to speak.

  You stand there, with the words swallowed down so deep. He pulls you in, gently. Asks you questions. You don’t answer; you can’t. Finally, he pulls you into a hug—a long embrace, with arms protecting, cradling. His palms flat against your back, your head tilted into the hollow of shoulder. Shaking again, and he’s murmuring reassuring words. The taste of mint in your mouth. Dry, dusty mint. Tilt your head up, just a little, and he’s looking down at you, concern in dark eyes.

  She’s shaking, and you hold her tight in the circle of your arms, trying to protect her from whatever has hurt her so badly, trying too late. You know what it must be. A mugger, a rapist, all the bad things, bad men that your mom warned your sister about. This woman’s head is buried in your shoulder, her face pressed hard against your chest. You give up on the questions, murmur soft, useless phrases.

  He moved into the spare room a few months ago, and you don’t know him and he doesn’t know you, but he knows that you’re not the type of woman to come home this late with dirt on your legs, with an inability to speak. You’re not that kind of girl. You’re not.

  His name returns to you. Michael.

  She looks up. She looks up for a long moment, and then she stretches up on her toes and kisses you. You have never been kissed before. Twenty-three and never been kissed. Another time, it would be almost funny.

  You kiss him, hard. His lips taste like nothing, a relief. He pulls away.

  “Shefali?” Startled, unsure. She kisses you again, her mouth open, her tongue pressing against your lips. You open your lips, just a little, and her tongue slips inside. Your breath catches; you can feel the blood running through your body, running out. You are leaning against her now; you are holding each other up. Her hands are clinging tight to your shirt, her nails digging into your skin.

  You had been walking down Guerrero, exhausted. Class ran late. Missed the last bus and not enough for a cab, so you were walking home after eleven. Street deserted—pools of lamplight illuminating emptiness. Backpack heavy on your shoulder and you wondering why the hell you decided to wear the damn heels to class. The sexy professor who noticed your legs yesterday was the reason. Stupid reason.

  You’ve never been this close to a girl, for this long. All through high school and college too, everyone thought you were a ladies’ man; nobody noticed that all the girls liked you and all the girls flirted, but none of them dated you twice. They said, “You’re such a nice guy,” or “I just don’t feel that way about you,” or, often, “Let’s just be friends, Mike.” You smiled; you walked them to the door. Because you were, after all, a nice guy.

  Your feet hurt like hell, and finally you stopped and took off the heels. Shoes in one hand, picking your way carefully along the concrete sidewalk, watching for broken glass. Unprepared for the swift figure out of the alley, his hand grabbing your arm, a pocketknife at your throat. Heels in his face? Scream? He dragged you into the alley, pressed you up against the wall. Just a pocketknife, but the blade was sharp.

  Maybe sixteen, barely bearded and acne-spotted. White boy with dead-cat breath and a high voice.

  “Hey, bitch. Bitch, you’re gonna give me some.”

  Not wanting money. Visions of blood, and your legs were shaking. Glad of the concrete wall at your back. Cool. Calm.

  “You want sex?” Your voice didn’t crack.

  He was confused. Maybe he’d expected you to scream.

  “Yeah.”

  A nice guy, and you’d always figured that someday, you’d meet a nice girl. Maybe a redhead, with green eyes and pale skin. You’d be friends first, and you’d fall in love, until one day, at a movie, you’d kiss her. And she’d kiss you back, and you’d know that she loved you.

  Here was the test. “Blow job’s fifty bucks. You wanna fuck, it’ll be a hundred.” Didn’t let him see the fear. As if you did this every day.

  So when one girl in college did sit on your bed, and lean against you, and started running her hand over your thigh, up towards your crotch—you pulled away. She smel
led sweet and dark and musky, and you were so turned on you couldn’t think, but you pulled away, because she wasn’t the girl you were looking for. It might have been fun, but it wouldn’t have been right.

  “Where the fuck am I going to get that!” He was shaking. “I’ve got a fucking knife on you and you want fifty bucks?”

  You sighed. A quiet voice screaming in the back of your head, ignored. “Look, whatcha got?” The knife against your throat.

  He shrugged. “Maybe ten.”

  “Okay. But you gotta wear a rubber.”

  He didn’t move or speak. Sweat dripping down his face and the stink of fear heavy in the air.

  Every semester, every year, you figured the right girl would come along. You graduated, and she still hadn’t shown up. Then you were working, and there were no women in the programmers’ basement. You started to get scared. Maybe you’d never find her. Maybe she didn’t exist. After two years of that, you figured that you had to get out of Indiana, go someplace new, different.

  He pulled the knife away from your throat, held it tight in his right hand. Fumbled in his pocket with the left, dragged out a crumpled five, a couple of ones. You took them, not touching his fingers. Didn’t let your hand shake.

  “Don’t have a rubber.” He was halfway apologetic, halfway belligerent. His forehead was sweating. Could have lost it right there.

  You slowly reached back, watching his eyes. Watch the eyes, not the knife. Unzipped your backpack, stuffed the money in. In a mesh pocket, among tampons and spare batteries, found a single condom. Only God knew how long it’d been there. Handed it to him.

  So you moved to San Francisco, moved in with a friend of your sister’s. Shefali. Just for a few months, until you found a place of your own. She worked all day and took classes at night, so you didn’t see her much, but didn’t much mind. Pretty, but not really your type–too thin, too intense. A little intimidating. Your friends would have told you to go for it, but you’d waited so long already—you could wait a little longer.

  He unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock. Got the condom on, with difficulty. Stood there, waiting for you, blinking.

  You dropped to your knees on gravel. Muck on your legs. Spit on your hand and grabbed his cock. Rubbed it ’til it was hard. Then in your mouth, powdery-mint and latex. You almost gagged then, but shoved it down. All down.

  You were still waiting for your girl, and you thought you knew what it’d be like. After that first kiss, after lots of kissing, it would be slow and gentle. You’d talk a lot first, that first time, calming her nerves and yours. Then some kissing, touching, more talking. Slow and easy and gentle, just the way she liked it. If you were lucky, that would be the girl you married someday.

  His hands tight in your hair. By the end, he was fucking your mouth, slamming into your throat. When it was done, he tossed the condom, zipped up, walked away. Tomorrow he’d tell his friends he got a blow job from a hooker for only eight bucks. He’d boast. He’d do this again.

  You knelt there.

  And then. You were running a program, trying to find the bugs. Lost in it, and you don’t know how long it was until you heard the banging at the door. You lifted your head, confused. Shefali had a key. You went down the stairs, wondering what had happened. Had she lost her key? Maybe it was a neighbor? A fire? A shooting?

  Once he was out of sight, the shakes took over. Deep shudders and still you were biting back the moan. Blankly you stood and started walking. Walking and walking. You circled your block three times before you walked up the stairs to the apartment and the door. Couldn’t find your keys. You slammed your fist into the door until Michael opened it, his eyes startled.

  Now Shefali’s body is long against yours. She’s kissing you hard, fierce, like she wants to swallow you whole.

  You can’t help reacting to this woman in these arms, this woman who smells like night, this woman who wants you.

  Your head is swimming and your muscles are tense. Her lips are traveling over yours, her tongue is entwining with yours.

  She wants you.

  Your hands balled tight in the fabric of his shirt, you pull him to you. You can feel him hard against you; he must want you. He has to.

  This can’t be right.

  You take a deep breath and then pull back. You catch her hands in yours, her hands that are still locked on your shirt—as if she wants to drag you down or drag herself up.

  You hold her hands and ask her with your eyes, your voice. “Shefali, is this what you really want?”

  Such a kind voice, and you nod. Mouth ‘yes,’ though your throat is still locked. Mouth ‘please.’

  You don’t know her—you don’t even particularly like her—but she wants you, she needs you.

  You’re a nice guy, and she needs you.

  Can you say no to that?

  He surrenders then, hands gentle on your back, lips moving against yours. He smells like open fields.

  You release her hands. Her tongue thrusts into your mouth. She leads you up the stairs, to her room, her bed. Your hands travel uncertainly over her body, trying to erase the imagined touch, to replace it with warm hands, with care. As gentle as possible.

  But she is not gentle with you.

  So slow, so patient, and you cannot stand it. You need speed, the rush of blood in your arteries and veins. He does not know how to give it to you, and so you take it, digging your nails into his back, biting down until you break the skin, riding him until you and he and the room and the world dissolve into light, into nothing at all.

  Afterwards, she cries. Shefali weeps, and terror rises in you and wonder if you have done the wrong thing, if you have hurt her, hurt her worse, perhaps. You hold her close as she tells you everything.

  Weep while he holds you, until the tears have washed a path down cheekbone and chin to opening throat. Tell him everything, every detail.

  Your stomach churns, and you are glad that you did not ask her to go down on you. Not that you would have had the nerve, even if this had been a normal date, at a normal time. Not the first time.

  He gets the seven dollars from your backpack and you throw it out the window. He puts you in a shower. You both go back to bed.

  She is no longer shaking, and she smiles at you, and the ghosts seem fainter now. Maybe it will be all right. Maybe you did the right thing after all.

  He holds you close and rubs your back until you finally fall asleep in his arms.

  She falls asleep before you, and you lie there in the moonlight, tracing the line of her cheekbone with your eyes.

  This was not the way you had wanted it to be.

  In the morning, you wake before him. Sun pours onto the bed and the alley seems a dream. A dream of rank sweat and mint, terror and arousal. You shudder, biting your lip. A hand between your thighs comes away damp.

  You are crying again.

  Invocation

  i will go |

  up |

  into the mountains |

  the empty spaces | you will go down

  where the wind | to the city

  shuddering | a small room a

  through quaking | single chair a

  aspen | screech of

  is the only | police or

  conversation | ambulance

  | and occasional

  the air so clear | gunshots

  and bright at |

  dawn | the waves against

  the sky every | the city shore

  shade of gold | the temptation

  the peaks sharp | to walk beside

  like knives | them in the dark

  the wind cold | at night

  and startling | when your mind

  | is racing

  in the silence |

  poems are | the constant

  writing themselves | thudding

  on crisp | waves lines bodies

  white sheets | exploding

  | on the pages

  i remember |

  the city | you remember me.
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br />   The Survey

  So this guy walks up to me on the street, at something like 8 p.m., on that deserted stretch over by the park, y’know? I’d be scared, except he’s just a kid, and he says, “Hey, you wanna do this survey?” And I say, “What’s in it for me? I’m a busy woman?” And he says “Five bucks—and if you answer the long form, fifty.”