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From the Diary Of a Closet Shadow I learned to love you in the dark, but there were no windows and I couldn’t tell if you loved me so much or not at all. So many nights I’ve lingered between hangers, cleaving to the pleats in your skirts, pooling among the creases of your shirred bolero, dreaming your body into them. Your body was like lines from a foreign film waiting to be dubbed: I knew them by heart but not the translation. How many times did I slink into rifts between walls and listen to the other shadows, those house dwellers who dawdled and gossiped outside, planning for when the rooms would again be bathed in the feathery afterglow of dusk, and they could then arrange themselves on your floors and walls in a diagram of rough edges, a palette of penumbral shades into which you could dip your body? The desire of these spectral amoebae is nothing compared to mine. They want to worship. Adoration simple. Me, I would dart for your throat like a dental mirror, hunker down with your tonsils, glide along your gums like a ghostly catamaran skirting the barrier reef. I would be a student of your darkness, a tenant to your windowless cathedral of night reading with claustrophobic joy the nicks and dimples of your buds, flirting with your fickle frenum in the murky lair of your mouth, catching the taste of your words, being the first to sample your own special recipe of wind and thought and cluck. To live there, a carbon of your every kiss, is what I crave, to cuddle with your corium in your cavum oris proprium, a sub-lingual shade cradled and courted, known but not spoken, there but not quite, at the tip of your...
Chris Semansky | Mudlark No. 20 |