Page 315 - What They Did to the Kid
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What They Did to the Kid                                  303

                  ...on a beautiful beach...
                  “Let me breathe your breath...”
                  ...faced with the mortal sin...
                  “...and breathe back into you.”
                  ...that could make me fully human.
                  Swept away, I rose to my knees, vine leaves curling down from
               my  hair,  around  my  chest  and  arms,  lifting  her  effortlessly,  she
               gasped, half-laughing, half-loving the gesture, like a lake dance on
               the sand, like King Kong carrying Fay Wray, like Hercules lifting a
               beautiful girl, feeling some old miraculous Jesus out walking on the
               water, all white and glowing with starlight, smiling, winking, like
               Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett, I lifted her, carrying her clinging
               into the lake, the warm water rising on my thighs, she murmuring,
               oh love, oh love, invoking love, the water rising around us, her legs
               locking in the vine leaves around my waist, in so deep the surface of
               the flat water spread out a dark saucer around us, night and moon
               and city lights, swirling, she sat on my thighs, her arms given over,
               around, cooing love, love, love, fuck, fuck me do, her hands fluttering
               like little fish, touching, holding, squeezing me, shorting out, trying
               not to think of Hank the Tank drowning, how it must have been
               like this, wet, and so I saw him, Tank, panicked, breathless, going
               down once, floating, spouting, going down twice, spurting, lost,
               pumping the cold water, drowning, her, breathless, floating, laugh-
              ing, her arms and legs twined around, veined around me, the sense
              of being not myself, of turning inside out, forgetting her, forgiving
              her. Oh, love, love, she cried, slowing, tendering care. I did not, could
              not, was not like other men. Something held me blank, blanked
              out, blanketed. I could give myself to nothing, not even this, this,
              this ultimate act of creativity, this drumming tribal demand, this
              pleasure, this beautifully mortal sin. I could give myself to nothing
              all the way. Oh, she said, love me, and, oh, please, she said, hold me,
              and let me, she said, hold you, and she was perfect, and I was emptied
              of lust but not desire, starting to tickle her, to bring her up out of
              any misconception, beginning a laugh, slowly, coaxing her, shivering
              in the water, the cold up to our necks, cooing her head to quiet on
              my shoulder, loving her for what she was, no matter what, steadying
              her head, palming her hair close to me. Hold on, I said holding her


                        ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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