marking me

following 3 hours spent baldly eyeing me across, through, over them, he finds me later in isolation, engrossed but accessible and, depositing his effects at the altar of my feet, settles himself to my right to tell me that he loves my muscles, appreciate my strength, you are so brave, so bold. so strong, sexy, smart.

flattered at first, i acknowledge the occupation of his ring finger and absorb his lamentation on love and the disillusionment it provokes.

in the same way, he once admired my strength, i'm sure this one admired things about his beloved that he now finds intolerably unstable, that he now stores as fuel for his husbandly rants. honey, if i were yours eternally, you wouldnt' like my muscles and you'd soon abhor my strength. you'd think i was controlling and you'd find my boldness cruel.

then, watching another across, through, over me, you'd discover true appeal in attributes that were not mine. and you'd love them. until you owned them.

falafel truck

hey, baby, hey, baby, hey, baby.

he leans, leering, oveer the wares on his cart, forcing himself into my line of vision, eyes perusing my every angle, glinting hungrily above his suggestive smirk.

fuck you, sir, for raping me on the street. fuck you, sir, for dicomfiting me in my own skin, thrusting your mind into my pants, your xray eyes through my shirt. fuck you, sir, for your needy, virtual hands.



besides the sidewalk sexualization, i am distressed because i know this lurks also in him, that what the turbaned one articulated would never escape from his mouth, but would hover instead subversively just below his lips, tongue, teeth and penetrate every one of them through his quai-transcendent, denying gaze.

best in show

"i guess it was for the best. he said it was. i can't be too mad or sad or whatever about it, you know. i'm just glad nothing bad happened. can you imagine? i mean, what if i hadn't been here? this baby. this miracle. this child. he could have died. so i'm sad and stuff that i didn't do it the way i wanted, but, mostly, i'm just grateful. it wasn't what i wanted, but i think it saved that baby's life." her fingers graze her stapled stomach and she grimaces in pain. "also, it's good this way because i didn't have to go through all that. i've heard it really hurts."

"i'm not sure i could have done it. my moms said that baby'd bust my butt in two. then, the doctor said he'd grown too big so fast when he did the ultrasound. he was too big for me to push his ass out. i wasn't wanting to try. i couldn't do that shit. seven pounds is a lot of baby."

"you know, i feel it's very empowering, being able to come in now, not disrupting my life, schedule things when i want them, so i can rearrange my work, get someone to cover for me, get some things in order, not have to rush out, half-naked, in the middle of the night, bleeding in a taxi cab, who knows when the baby would have come? now that i'm here, there'll be no surprises. they'll just cut me open and take her right out. i just hope they sedate me well, but i do, really, thank god that i live in a country that values my voice, that gives me this power."

"my husband was worried, a little, about, you know, down there, and then i've talked to my friends who've had babies, you know, naturally, and they've said things about, you know, stretching down there, and then, well, you hear people talking, you know, and i think not for all that. i carried this baby 9 whole months and now my body's shot to hell, you know? not that, too. it's all i've got left. so, i talked to my doctor, and we're going to just bypass the whole thing, you know? just zip and it's out and i don't even have to worry about what things will feel like at the end, whether it'll, you know, stay snug down there. he said with the surgery, while i'm under, they my be able to tighten up my belly a bit, too, which, really, i mean, look at me."

room 4

his body, bent and broken, lies uselessly strapped and tubed, heaing violently with each mechanical breath. blood crusts his ears, neck, nose, eyes, brownly dried and surrounding each potential exit. under the bleached bandage turban, his closed eyes mesmerize, a remarbly circular idnigo against his ashen face. i feel dirty and force my gaze away, but find my eyse drawn repeatedly to the shadow of his.

i wonder briefly if they're blue.

he beat the kid's mom, so the son beat him within an inch of his own life. i imagine the cracking impact of the aluminum bat against his broken nose, shattered skull, and i recall the american history x scene that still makes me shudder, despite having seen it a hundred different times. still, the same violent crack, bite the curb, nigger, the same nauseating, spurting, shattering impact makes me look away.

the policeman stands guard all day at his bedside, as if he poses a serious risk of flight, as if, if he so desired, he could arise and run away. his leg twitches involuntarily and alarms sound around his bed. his intracranial pressure spikes and his body heaves, his falccid head thrust fitfully agains the hard plastic of his life machine.

if and when he wakes, he will be escorted to county jail, and court, and supposed justic will be served. the staff keep him alive now so he can be cuffed later, although he may not remember her name, much less that he beat her or how. but he's a mean, mean bastard and, by god, we've nabbed him. we've got him right where we want him: strapped to a bed and heaving like hell, and praise the Lord, he'll get what he deserves.