fingers into my shirt. I look to see whether the blood has dripped into and spoiled the bowl of O's. No, but without warning my instinct and my hunger give way, dislodged by something newer, stronger. A spiral swims away from the red mud seas and grows broader and hotter, and I cannot stop it. I cannot stop it.
My mother looks up and sees the color of my shirt, a color that is getting deeper and truer as I stand there looking down at my swaddled hand. She takes off her blouse and wraps it in tight circles around my fingers. Her eyes search for the contents of a shallow bowl, perched on the family altar that the Old Man allows her, a bowl that gathers dead flies and clumps of dust held together by kitchen grease. She tells me to sit down on the ground. Put the whole of my weight on top of that hand. She walks over to the altar, reaches inside the bowl, and takes out a small lime, a daughter's offering to the memory of a father and a mother whom she had not seen since she was fourteen. "No one wants a lime when they are dead," she apologizes every day to them. "Oranges, I know, are much preferred," she says. "They can be eaten alone. Sweet is good enough on its own. Sour requires salt and chili peppers, and I have none of that to spare." She rolls the lime on the table. Each rotation smashes the pulp inside. She does this until she feels the hardness of the fruit give way, sink into itself, drown in its own juices. A quick cut across its slackened belly, and she is crossing the kitchen with the halves still facing each other in the palm of her hand. She unwinds her blouse and sees that it will never be the same. Blood, she knows, changes everything. I see there on my fingertips a landscape that would become as familiar to me as the way home. She sits down and wraps herself around me, pressing my stooped back into herself. With one hand, she holds my fingers together. With the other, she squeezes the juice of the lime onto my fingertips. "Fire! Fire!" I yell. She blows them out and begins to hum a tune. My fingertips heal, despite the threat of rust on her knife.
Again lime juice has bleached the edges. Blood has drained, leaving rows of white cliffs flanking the sides of mud red seas. I look down and am amazed that even this landscape is dull compared to where I have just been. I remember, yes, a caress, a slight sensation, and when my hands are shaking it feels like a tickle. In the beginning I preferred the blade to be newly sharpened, licked against a stone until sparks flew, white and blue. Now I know that such delicacy would only deny me that part that I savor most, the throbbing of flesh compromised, meeting and mending. And sometimes when it is deep enough, there is an ache that fools my heart. Tricks it into a false memory of love lost to a wide, open sea. I say to myself, "Ah, this reminds me of you. "
8
Twenty-four figs, so ripe that their skins are split.
A bottle of dry port wine.
One duck.
Twelve hours.
I MAKE A MENTAL LIST of the ingredients for the dinner that I will cook and that you and someone else will eat. I was expecting a much larger party. Your French, though, was clear, and even I could see that your garret would not hold more than two or three comfortably for a seated dinner. I had pictured at least six or eight in total, all of them young, all of them male, a smaller cross section, perhaps, of those who congregate around GertrudeStein during the Saturday teas. Tall saplings crowding around an earthy patch, they always seem to me. Of course, I
notice
them. They are my weekly bonus, after all. If I had known, I would have agreed to work for these Mesdames for free. Money, I know, is not everything. Lust is an entirely different story. Thankfully, my Mesdames provide me with a steady supply. GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas prefer each other first and second, and then they prefer their Messieurs, young and American. I would have never guessed that these two ladies, so uncompromisingly past their prime,
My mother looks up and sees the color of my shirt, a color that is getting deeper and truer as I stand there looking down at my swaddled hand. She takes off her blouse and wraps it in tight circles around my fingers. Her eyes search for the contents of a shallow bowl, perched on the family altar that the Old Man allows her, a bowl that gathers dead flies and clumps of dust held together by kitchen grease. She tells me to sit down on the ground. Put the whole of my weight on top of that hand. She walks over to the altar, reaches inside the bowl, and takes out a small lime, a daughter's offering to the memory of a father and a mother whom she had not seen since she was fourteen. "No one wants a lime when they are dead," she apologizes every day to them. "Oranges, I know, are much preferred," she says. "They can be eaten alone. Sweet is good enough on its own. Sour requires salt and chili peppers, and I have none of that to spare." She rolls the lime on the table. Each rotation smashes the pulp inside. She does this until she feels the hardness of the fruit give way, sink into itself, drown in its own juices. A quick cut across its slackened belly, and she is crossing the kitchen with the halves still facing each other in the palm of her hand. She unwinds her blouse and sees that it will never be the same. Blood, she knows, changes everything. I see there on my fingertips a landscape that would become as familiar to me as the way home. She sits down and wraps herself around me, pressing my stooped back into herself. With one hand, she holds my fingers together. With the other, she squeezes the juice of the lime onto my fingertips. "Fire! Fire!" I yell. She blows them out and begins to hum a tune. My fingertips heal, despite the threat of rust on her knife.
Again lime juice has bleached the edges. Blood has drained, leaving rows of white cliffs flanking the sides of mud red seas. I look down and am amazed that even this landscape is dull compared to where I have just been. I remember, yes, a caress, a slight sensation, and when my hands are shaking it feels like a tickle. In the beginning I preferred the blade to be newly sharpened, licked against a stone until sparks flew, white and blue. Now I know that such delicacy would only deny me that part that I savor most, the throbbing of flesh compromised, meeting and mending. And sometimes when it is deep enough, there is an ache that fools my heart. Tricks it into a false memory of love lost to a wide, open sea. I say to myself, "Ah, this reminds me of you. "
8
Twenty-four figs, so ripe that their skins are split.
A bottle of dry port wine.
One duck.
Twelve hours.
I MAKE A MENTAL LIST of the ingredients for the dinner that I will cook and that you and someone else will eat. I was expecting a much larger party. Your French, though, was clear, and even I could see that your garret would not hold more than two or three comfortably for a seated dinner. I had pictured at least six or eight in total, all of them young, all of them male, a smaller cross section, perhaps, of those who congregate around GertrudeStein during the Saturday teas. Tall saplings crowding around an earthy patch, they always seem to me. Of course, I
notice
them. They are my weekly bonus, after all. If I had known, I would have agreed to work for these Mesdames for free. Money, I know, is not everything. Lust is an entirely different story. Thankfully, my Mesdames provide me with a steady supply. GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas prefer each other first and second, and then they prefer their Messieurs, young and American. I would have never guessed that these two ladies, so uncompromisingly past their prime,
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