by Clay, Josie
“Stop trying so hard”. Your voice shimmers and slowly my hand rises. “Det stammer Minky”. I touch your hair.
“Dale?”
“Yes, Minky?”
“What should I do?”
You pulse a wise indigo and your hands take mine, bringing them to your lips and I feel your blessing. Your body shines golden and loving, like a temple, your hair a luminous forest, capturing Cassiopeia and Andromeda and you bare your fluorescent teeth as you unleash that joyous mix of opera and friction.
“Minky” and there are bells and flutes and strains of an eastern lament.
“Minky …my love …go ahead ...swim”.
I wake up. It's morning and for the first time in eighteen months I'm not wondering why I'm crying. In fact, I'm not crying. I smell my shoulder and I am infused with you. My rickety walnut in flux, growing veins and arteries, finding new ways, no longer beating a retreat. In my mind's eye there is blood, red, fleshy, vital and heart-shaped.
Your B of the bang carving in my hands, caressing its skillfully wrought contours, holding the smooth to my lips, I kiss it. You will always be with me.
The ‘phone is ringing.
And now it's night again. I'm in our bed. Look at the rain, fleeting needles in the street lamp. I reach out and touch the curly hair of my lover.