Selah Saterstrom and Elizabeth Rollins: Nights Like This (remind me of pearls) 3 a.m. exchanges

Fall '07 TOC

The Silvertip grizzly takes the path, too, because it's easier, and we don't blame her when
she flays us.

 

The number one question is – is it gross?
They fear it is and therefore can't relax and you know – really get into it.


Underneath my breasts, in the heat, sweat rolls. First a single drop, then a spread of
traveling drops. I follow them to my ankles.

 

The tender fold where the lower arc of a woman's breast connects is often neglected
all together.


There was a wooden grid, where the coverlet hung.  Below this, stars in her eyes,
extinguished one by one.

 

It has now been so many years that I never think of it. Sometimes it does send the
unexpected postcard. In palates class I did a hip isolation and in my mind saw twenty
girls' asses lined up, backs on the bed, legs up, the flowers unobstructed. The twenty
asses morphed into a flesh parallelogram and formed into one woman, same position, the
stunning oval-acular shape. Then I saw her legs bounce as something does when its
spring has busted. After, you could put her legs where ever you wanted and they would
just stay. That postcard arrived yesterday at lunch. Postmarked 1987.


Other women know better. They read books or learned it secretly from mothers or
laundresses. I just let it burn.

 

I finally learned how. Amazing, really. I  fell in love and screamed my head off.

 

There are infinite golden lines inside me, tracing. Here to there. Sometimes these
ring out like celestial bells.

 

Inside there is a white chapel bathed in blue light with adjoining marble corridors.
There they serve heaven cakes. A light white cake with rose scented white frosting
with blue sprinkles on top.


There is a blank page in the middle of the text.  They tear it out and it reappears.
It takes ink just like a page.

 

That awful day. My hands were holding him and then he turned into this octopus, then
a mass of entrails slipping and sliding between my fingers, onto the wet deck. Then
night happened like a Hibiscus happens.


You can't carry it. Others have tried. It is too heavy and besides there is gushing,
squirming, pummeling. They have put it in donut boxes, but it soaked through.  They
have tied it with ropes, but the ropes went limp. Cheap turquoise ribbon worked
for awhile, but the novelty wore off and it broke in ragged edges. They run alongside
now. They try to invent a better way.

 

We soaked through. We soaked through the bed and also the wooden floor beneath it.
We then ruined the foundation, the ceiling of the basement, and eventually the basement
floor and its foundation too. Jesus, he said (as if complaining).

 

After the commotion subsided, we asked him and he replied:
I thought tropical meant fragrant.

 

I don't know why – at that moment – you would want to taste a banana or a cherry or a
mint. Perhaps for encouragement.


There are those, we proclaim, who want to fuck the world, and there are those who don't.
The ones who don't usually remain silent when among the fuckers, but the fuckers are
nevertheless drowned out.

 

I can't stand to see a bunch of people fucking at once. It freaks me out. Like seeing
someone eating with their mouth open, but times ten thousand. I guess some people like it
because it's an "energy thing." Then I said: Constantine, I know that your heart
is broken and truly I do feel for you. But all the while I was remembering the time she
stole my best dollar and spent it on herself.


I used to lie, all the time. But this makes you a tyrant.  Still, sometimes,
I find a small half-lie is like a hidden bed that waits for only you.

 

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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