There is nothing that gets me down anymore-he says.
I don't really believe you-I say.
Well you should. Because well, its true-He says.
What do you mean? I bus full of kids that you happen to run into and kill all of them wouldn't get you down?- i say
Shut up. Of course it would.- He says
Im a bitch- I say
Yeah, you are- He says.
Hes been kissing this girl downtown, claiming that he doesn't feel any remorse any longer.
My self, the cripple, can't believe it.
I apply lipstick with my good hand, and i don't bother kissing anyone any longer.
He used to kiss me, but i wouldn't compare it to Archaic gods or linen sheets or central park. I wouldn't attempt it.
How are you-he says.
Nothing new- i say.
Good i hope?- He says.
Fine- I say.
I attempt to not squander his lovesick heir with my unearthly sickness.
The world opened up, when i lost my fingers, limbs and its steam.
It was more powerful than drugs or sex.
Suddenly my own memories were no longer mine.
So- this downtown girl- I say.
Shes really good- he says.
Good- I say.
Good kisser?- I say.
Yes. Very- He says.
Good- I say
I re birthed myself, on my own, i don't even own a cat.
I wrote songs and recorded my little voice into my computer.
I read nothing.
I ate nothing.
I just sat, listened and opened my mouth when i wanted to.
I can't say anything glorious came from it.
In fact, i most certainly know that nothing DID come from it.
Just a beautiful computer jam packed with one woman's coping method.
i like this- he says.
I realize- i say
he is gripping my good hand in his.
my hand is sweating.
The late august wind had the slightest hint of autumn, my pace slowed to an awkward dull.
In my mouth, chewing on my bubble mint gum.
My throat stings from talking, because i have been talking too much in a very long time.
My mono syllabic responses cough up the backed up flem in my esophagus.
I no longer smoke, but i did that day.
My bad hand is wrapped in a bandage, it is like a sculpture, erupted into bubbling skin, and twisted flesh and bones.
He doesn't acknowledge im sick, or deformed.
I don't either.
Stop!- i say.
Are you okay?- he says.
Yes, i need a cigarette- i say.
I'll buy you some- he says.
Really?!- I say.
Yes, do you still smoke camel lights?- He says
No, i say. I smoke whatever you're smoking- I say.
Oh i don't anymore, ms. downtown doesn't like kissing me when i do.- He says.
oh- i say- camel lights are fine- I say.
In a matter of seconds i get a pack of cigarettes, and tell him to open it for me.
Its in my lips lit, fresh and deadly.
In my virgin lungs again, i feel like my old self again and suddenly my memories are mine again.
He walks past me to through away the plastic off the cigarette pack.
His back looks the same, like when i used to kiss him, and when we'd lie in bed pretending
what we had just done was far more astounding than it was.
I remember the child i took care off after school in college, that is now fourteen.
Anton, he had corn silk hair, he liked Jacques Cousteau.
We made up songs and we went to the movies together.
These two moments, relinked from the dark organ tissue lost from a month of pity.
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out but smoke.
A hurricane is gonna hit New Orleans- He says
I just read it in the New York Times- He says
Right there- He says
I open my mouth, spread my lips and tongue to attempt audible sound.
Shame it is- He says.
Awful news- he says.
i remember the dim lights of parties.
And the one man i loved to kiss at parties.
I remember the books i read.
Whitman, walden, camus.
I remember the incense at college i would burn when i was depressed or high.
I remember the dress of gingham i would wear on dates.
it is- I say
it really is- I say.
I wrap myself in my shawl and begin to cry in my head. a deep cry. inaudible, reverberating in my skull.
deep belly sounds only slightly shaking the tissue of my brain.
The cry transfers down my throat out my nose.
floating down my nostrils, dripping onto my upper lips.
He wipes it for me.
i show him my hand.
we don't kiss.
but i sleep easy that night.
