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

 

What you don’t know

I can see what happens when he looks at you. There is a funny blue light that starts just below his ear. It curves under his jaw and then travels down his neck, out into his chest, where it shoots off in all directions. Like rivers meeting I suppose, but there’s something more electric, the way he shakes under the skin when you are here. He doesn’t like it, he thinks the heat, the buzz of that blue light is a danger sign. That the things flickering under his skin are a warning.

People don’t understand anything about themselves.

He likes you. I can see the vivid blue of his desire, the map of longing settled in his chest. It’s supposed to feel like this, I want to say. It’s supposed to shake you out of that stupor, that thing you call calm. I want to take my index finger and run it from his ear, down his neck and onto his chest. There, I’d need both hands, I’d need all my fingers, spread like arteries, or an explosion. And every place I touched – here, here, here – I’d say, there she is. There’s the way she tilts her head when she’s listening, there’s the constant glisten of her eyes when your stories move her. There is the curve of flesh under her shirt, and the way she self-consciously pulls at any falling fabric – and there is the way that little gesture only ever draws your eyes closer to what lies underneath.

He’s started to avoid you. I know you feel it, I can see the puzzlement in the way your shoulders go back when he’s colder than you remember him to be. Your shoulders are bright red, flaming, Elliott. Whether you are squaring them, or sinking them, or rolling them back and forth in attempt to dispel the energy you sense is stored there. At least you sense these things. You understand yourself a little better than he does.

Still. If you could see the light under his skin, you’d be in awe of what you don’t know.

~ Alice,  Into  the After