You are not the only one

Last night I slept with a man I met at the hotel bar. A Sailor visiting dry land for the holidays. He told me he lives weeks at a time aboard his submarine. Submerged in the deep and the dark. His world is a place most of us would do anything to avoid.

My God your body is beautiful, he said when we lay down on the bed, and I thought – living under the sea must do strange things to a man.

But I looked to see, just the same. I lifted the sheets to make a coy appraisal of my flesh, marinated in the salt and oil of summer, this skin that I will peel and shed back home. I took in the chipped red of holiday nails, the grains of sand in the curve of my foot, and the nerves still pulsing in my flexing toes. I looked at my pliant muscles, and the startling white of my hidden parts. I could see all of the ways the ocean had left its mark on me, too.

This man tasted of rum and cherries. And when he kissed me again I wanted to say –You are not the only one who has emerged from the deep.

Last night we both looked beautiful when held up to the light.

~ Lucy, LOVED

I posted an early version of this exactly five years ago. Like so many of my musings here, the scene found a perfect place in my novel. Eventually. Funny reminder today that you never know where you’ll end up. You. Just. Keep. Going. Here’s to an exciting second half of the year …

Advertisements

Aftermath

Week-old red wine. Just one more sip from the glass. I’ve been saturated for days. Imbued thoroughly. Isn’t that a way to put it. I’m soaked right through.

I can’t shake you off or swim clear.

There is work to be done, I know.

But I like the sinking. The aftermath, then, is always this. My tendency to get lost in the deep. And the way life reaches down, pulls me back up. As if she knows.

That I might sometimes prefer to drown.

Magdalene 2

“I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths. And a great fear of shallow living.” ~ Anais Nin

 

me – and you

Here lie the bones of our beginning. No flesh pressed around them, no strained muscle or arched, aching nerve asking to be felt, to be seen. Just bones, bare. A scattering of calcified possibility, clean and cold, with no cracks through.

Through.

The only way out is through they say, but sometimes the ending happens too soon. I was only at the start of you. Just learning to read the line of your jaw and the set of your mouth. A tentative translation of your every, and your nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing comes from nothing, this too they say. But I have always known that potential contains its own kind of miss, its own kind of mourn. That you can still lose that which could have, should have, might.

Might.

We might have put flesh to bone. We might have strained and arched and ached toward each other. Pressed down and around the bare to warm that clean and cold. We might have cracked through to something new.

To that making of me – and you.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

“Nothing real can be threatened…”

Falling

I had forgotten. This absence as presence. The thought of you wrapped around me, played between fingers, slid between thighs.

I had forgotten the breathing walls, the arching into darkness, the reaching for-

You.

I had forgotten. And now.

Your name on my lips, heavy. Falling. Snakes under my skin and yours grasped tight. Clay and thumbs pressed hard. Making.

You.

Now. I. Remember. You.

Jacqueline Bublitz at body, remember
Image by Joanne Piechota

 

 

Excavation

Do I scare you?

Is my music too loud? Can you sense the symphony under my skin, the cello and the drum beat? My own little march and invitation.

Is that why you want to turn me down.

Do I scare you? With words this long, and seeing through? With asking for your stories, too?

You scare me, it seems. Your dull charm and your possibility. The way my fingers itch toward your chest, toward ribs and the cracking of cages wide open.

This has always been my wild persuasion. A man buried as deep as you. And the promise of an excavation.

Joanne Piechota photography at body, remember

“Ordinary life does not interest me” ~ Anais Nin