Anyway, you’re not coming and I can’t have you this evening I have to put the flowers around my own throat and buy myself a film the red seats will be the violets of my lap. I’m going to begin now anointing myself with the oil of your absence. That is this book. And I made the book of you in your absence and I’ll come into the house and in the hot oil of your absence, my anointment a rose-shaped burn at my crown. I'll buy me flowers and cover my chest protecting my health in our violets. I can’t stop but I can have this open and we might communion then right among the spaces : between my side and inner arm, our outer arms, your inner arm and your thick torso and behind that your tight heart and the space between that nut and some energy around which there is no space We dip dates into a good wine and have communion. Have we the same mouth? Sometimes.
Sides
She was very pretty, the girl. Pity how thin her lips were. That was Tara’s first impression. The door to the basement opened and for a moment, the dull racket of the party yawned alive. The girl was the first to leave and she did so passing not three feet from Tara’s chair without so much as nodding her head. Tara was sitting in the TV room with a book in her lap, waiting for her son’s party guests to leave so that she could confirm they weren’t inebriated. As for the state of this girl, Tara couldn’t tell—she’d passed by too quickly. By the time Tara closed her book and put down her reading glasses, the chime at the front door had made its tinkle. The girl was gone.
Tara forced her bare feet into a pair of runners, flattening out the backs with her heels. The girl was already halfway up the block, hugging herself although the night was sticky and warm. In the yellow light of the streetlamp, Tara noticed some redness on the backs of her legs. A rash?