I was ready for tongue and skin and fire and molten. My nipples became a beacon for my next lover’s hands.
The universe heard me, and sent El Diablo.
I went into his bedroom, where he was naked on white sheets on this hot summer night, and sleeping, his small, muscled body and limbs like a starfish, and I hovered over him, and put my (hands?) on his right shoulder.
I moved through my grief, by sleeping with men I didn’t know. Through nightclubs and Madonna and sex in parking lots, from England to Rome to South America. I had sex with a priest, my therapist, an architect, and a stock broker.
Denial is a powerful tool. We can forgive the people who prefer to live inside a bubble of denial, until it touches their lives.
This had to happen, so I could meet the man I did love, the man who opened my heart and my legs and set me on fire, the man who would eventually die.
Her eyes still burned through my skin. During this time, she was asking my soul to remember.
He was my father and my husband, my soul mate and my first friend, my mentor and my thick bodied angel on earth.
Falling in love is directional, a going down, a spiral, but perhaps instead of falling in love we need to rise in love.
My father’s boat settled a very long war waging inside him – whether or not he sacrificed enough for his family.
so that now when any man touches me
they are touching you,
all of us drunk on the desire of the ages.
I pretended the psychic Russian countess had never whispered you were going to die into my ear.
My hands are bloody from taking blackberries off reluctant vines and I have woke in the night to wild pigs.
Ben lived in an abandoned upstairs apartment that smelled of stale cigarettes, whiskey, and oil paint.
All the women in my family who married men they didn’t love were tucked into the train of my wedding dress being dragged up the aisle with me.
When we arrived to the hospital, my grandmother was in a coma and three men were crying at the foot of her bed.
I lived for both the pleasure and the pang, the sliver of light in the darkness,.
I drank that first summer in Italy down to the nipple, sucking flesh off a tiny bone of baccalà.
The young naked woman spoke to all of us who always leave something on – a t-shirt, underwear, a lacy bra, shame. She spoke to the masks, to the too much of everything we carry with us