Monday, May 29, 2006

I count Teresa's bones in my memory. Recall the night she woke my throat with her hip. That sharp bone so close to her desires to make me into her girl. The mere thought that I am her chaste woman. Naked and coarse. I become her unforgiving baptism. She found the flesh of my body near her skin. Touched me with her unconscious fingers. The ones that forced God to tell lies. Teresa's skin there beneath the dogwood tree. I kiss her with all the tenderness that a tiny girl could muster. In the evening we recite prayers against the bitter landscapes, empty skies. Prayers in the dark for thunderstorms. Late into the night. Our laughter breaking hearts. Our fear. We must say goodbye. Breathe on me, Teresa. My tongue sore with missing her.

We need to lock our bodies in silence. 

Offering our touch to each other only in the invisible cracks of God's forest. We break our wounds. Open bodies, a puddle of blood. Wet hair, no lightening. Teresa hungers for rain, needs rain or she stays too deep inside herself, too close to the death songs. "It never rains here. Never," she tells me.



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