The Crease Behind her Knee
Her body lies as flat as gravity. Instead of falling, she lets the gravity envelop
her. She eats the apple that fell from its tree. She convinces the tree to prove
its tower is less than magic. She throws the core up. Gravity abhors it, but love
stops it. Love plays the still point, for one short moment. Love hovers.
Love is the handmaiden of blanket inertia—an all-American veto.
Love tries but there isn’t cup large enough to hold it so it knocks love over.
But she wants a story more than a pretty picture. She wants something to move.
She moves him. She shows him her bulimic teeth. She tells him about the post-coital
groove that caused a real groove down her arm with a key the boy never talked
about. He only talked about his cock. Aloud. She was embarrassed but clued-
in. She made her money sending bear livers to China. The keys arrive there, coined
by her. Keys folded into the blue-black veins. Viagra threatened to bankrupt
her but the lure of key and hole— it would fit— kept the importers from rupturing
at the seams. The importers never saw beauty but they had a taste of the rapture
when the girl came to town, asking for her keys back. She was bleeding pastures
of blood. She needed the keys to staunch her. She knew she was well-past saturation
She also knew how to put gravity back in the wall, pull out the metatarsus
relinquish the apple the bite the bullet the wrinkle. Turn into matted grass.