I am reading about my ex-boyfriend in my friend’s story. In it, he and she are lovers who meet in hotels whenever and wherever. His blue eyes are what give the fiction away.
And the girls are always smiling, their shoulders
encased in graduation black
or bared down to the peeled-back petals of the
Even the body, so impossibly tuned and tensioned:
all of us crimped, folded and thrumming just so, they say,
like a trillion trillion guitars or glass harmonicas, tiny
symhonies of sound—so why not metaphysics?
Everything the old woman said was true.
Then she suffered a heart attack and died in Ruth’s arms.
When they arrive I’ve crawled my way to the bathroom, peeled off my underwear, and, with the strength of a 155-pound Hercules who by now has lost half the blood in his body, heaved myself into the bathtub in an attempt to clean up.