I resent being called a "cradle-robber." My boyfriend is a year and a half younger than I. Gender reversed this would hardly be an exorbitant age difference.
Why isn't it people say what they mean "you are old, dried up soon unable to bear children and therefore worthless, he is too good for you, you are breaking the rules and we don't like it."
Honesty is simple and simplicity breaks the spell that cities and calculations and illness have over me. I am twenty two years old and when I am dead I want to be rolled beneath a tree and swallowed up by the earth while I am far away, laughing and dancing and being incredibly stupid in the place the Lord has saved for me.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
the red herring
Kahlen is fast.
That is to say, she is a runner. She french kisses tree branches low hanging in the sweet spring and pounds pavement all winter long. There is constant warmth in her shoulders. Anna has kissed those shoulders. Mark has pursed his lips between those shoulder blades. And Leanne, well, that was a mistake too great to talk about.
Kahlen's freckles expand in the summer and contract in the winter like concrete and her muscle grow and glow under sweaters and t-shirts and tank tops. She is an upstate summer winter spring fall straw blond and perfectly perched on the edge of a trembling cliff. Not quite perched actually but fixed. Everyone knows where forward goes but she's afraid of that. And behind is a frightened mystery like the portentous wind currents in trees in the blackest of night.
Running is a matter of life and death, not unlike the carrion, the dead deer glassy-eyed with tongue lolling maggots in the belly and the rabbit still going for the open field where a barn owl waits for the oily night. She flexes her palms open and closed like clams and the tendons beneath the arm move, so every part of her then moves.
Her skinny torso bare lays a cover of thin white skin over muscle and quivering ivory ribs. Maybe not Anna or Mark or Owen but Sierra with her heavy dark head of Russian descent that will read the patterns in that cool, tight waist and knotted back. Sierra's heavydark eyelashes touch Kahlen's collarbone with such surreptitious wanderings and she asks if maybe Kahlen will help her get in shape so the muscle above her pubic bone can mimic the firmness, the small sliding triangle over which she spreads her hands, looking out with enormous dark brown eyes.
Maybe not Sierra either, then. Kahlen will keep running faster down the road and cut off onto a dirt path through the pine trees, with bursts until her lungs hurt and the rumors and reports and the terrors spew into the air and dissipate behind. Maybe not Sierra Mark Anna Aron Owen Leanne but someone far out beyond the horizon, behind the moon still spinning and waiting to for God's final push.
So Kahlen is fast and when she runs the broad smile resulting hurts her very cheeks.
That is to say, she is a runner. She french kisses tree branches low hanging in the sweet spring and pounds pavement all winter long. There is constant warmth in her shoulders. Anna has kissed those shoulders. Mark has pursed his lips between those shoulder blades. And Leanne, well, that was a mistake too great to talk about.
Kahlen's freckles expand in the summer and contract in the winter like concrete and her muscle grow and glow under sweaters and t-shirts and tank tops. She is an upstate summer winter spring fall straw blond and perfectly perched on the edge of a trembling cliff. Not quite perched actually but fixed. Everyone knows where forward goes but she's afraid of that. And behind is a frightened mystery like the portentous wind currents in trees in the blackest of night.
Running is a matter of life and death, not unlike the carrion, the dead deer glassy-eyed with tongue lolling maggots in the belly and the rabbit still going for the open field where a barn owl waits for the oily night. She flexes her palms open and closed like clams and the tendons beneath the arm move, so every part of her then moves.
Her skinny torso bare lays a cover of thin white skin over muscle and quivering ivory ribs. Maybe not Anna or Mark or Owen but Sierra with her heavy dark head of Russian descent that will read the patterns in that cool, tight waist and knotted back. Sierra's heavydark eyelashes touch Kahlen's collarbone with such surreptitious wanderings and she asks if maybe Kahlen will help her get in shape so the muscle above her pubic bone can mimic the firmness, the small sliding triangle over which she spreads her hands, looking out with enormous dark brown eyes.
Maybe not Sierra either, then. Kahlen will keep running faster down the road and cut off onto a dirt path through the pine trees, with bursts until her lungs hurt and the rumors and reports and the terrors spew into the air and dissipate behind. Maybe not Sierra Mark Anna Aron Owen Leanne but someone far out beyond the horizon, behind the moon still spinning and waiting to for God's final push.
So Kahlen is fast and when she runs the broad smile resulting hurts her very cheeks.
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