Sunday, October 30, 2005
Falling and loving are two different things.
Falling down is good. With practice you get better.
What does a woman mean when she says no?
Gabriel Garcia Marquez has inflamed my imagination.
We are making love. I crush your bones until there is nothing left but tulip petals in a pool of urine. Then your belly begins to swell like a fat tomato. A child is born that you can call your own. You can give it a name. I have my own pet names, Lunetta, for a girl, or Bradshaw Gumption for a boy, but I no longer need the power of naming.
Two years pass. Lunetta is a toddler. We are in France. I am very successful. We begin to quarrel. You say I love my work too much. I am distant, but I still think I can control you.
Ten more years pass. You are coming into your power now. You have become a true stallion of a woman, thicker, but still graceful in movement. And then we become equals and then we finally become friends.
Or, we live on a farm in southern Ohio with horses and cows.
Or, I become gravely ill, but even so you tire of me and leave me for Leonard, an artist in stained glass.