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Oh, You Parents! Edmund Hibble R , Ph. Shapiro Samuel A. The Mercury Reader Valentines! Leon Hanson the Right Rev. Hanson The Right Reverend Wm. Werner Herzog What's So Funny? When the lights came back on, the flies of fire turned into bugs with six jointed legs and hair-like antennae. I frolic with peacocks and talk to parrots in the seventeenth century. My face is pearly with a gossamer white anchal over my pale breasts, shadows of pink nipples under silver flowers of zardozi.
My skirt is bleached Banarasi silk. My skin is translucent, fuzz-free. The Bangladeshi auntie who threaded my eye brows sang along in a thin voice and a round accent with the Bollywood party songs on the radio and when the chorus came, the aestheticians and the hairdressers—blow-drying female hair, buffing female nails, touching up female highlights, waxing female thighs—threw their heads back and sang together. The eyebrow auntie plowed across my forehead with the thread, and blood drops bloomed on my brow bone.
Tears down my face. While inspecting my brows in the mirror, I caught her eye and both of us smiled. In the fifth century I hold a sheet of gold so polished it reflects my image back at me. Every day it torments me. Lightning had glimmered all afternoon. Thunder booming like an afterthought, no rain. When you put three fingers inside me, I made sounds that boomeranged off the trees.
My insides were empty, and emptiness is good for echoes. You had always fucked me from behind, but I preferred to turn away from you anyway, faking quick orgasms, relieved from the burden of performing.
The sky, orange and gray, hung over us like a full belly. I sucked you off while you drove, pebbles shooting like gun pellets under the tires, and when you came your semen was salty-bitter, your fair face red, glass-eyed. We cleaned you up with a newspaper. You dropped me at a red light and took my car to meet your friends. I waited for you on the empty sidewalk, Sweetheart, hands smelling of cum and sweat. In the seventh century, hands folded, I bow to gurus, prophets, monarchs, consorts, lovers, and husbands.
I hang around in the backdrop, behind kings, gods, Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. In the fifteenth century I have a thick neck, a dense body. Hair rife on my face, my eyes are hazel, my mouth is wide. A presence in negative, like a photo reel. By dawn we had finished the sixteen beers in the trunk. You started racing the car through red lights and hit a man on a motorbike. The man fell, I screamed, cars honked, and you kept racing.
In the fourth century, my thighs are like the trunks of plantain trees. The bells on my ankles ring gently as I walk, a gaja gamini—the one with the gait of an elephant—never fast, never slowly. Smithereens of sun-gold in the foliage. My voice? We paid him for damages and at dusk settled by the river in the shadow of skyscrapers, drinking from plastic cups, a beer bottle filled with vodka at my feet. The cheese wept in the heat, my hair a halo of humidity, the beer-vodka warm like the soupy night.
Must be dead, right? Should I poke it with a stick? Poor fish. In this sleekness, I reflect the ideal state of being—detached or silenced—take your pick. My laugh is harsh and my mind is set on gluttony. I stumbled past the bridge. I passed yellow wigs on white mannequins, shiny strands on perfect skin.
I walked by a laser clinic promising bare legs and bald vulvas. I kneeled on the dusty sidewalk and vomited lifetimes of disdain. Two camera crews turned up and positioned their mics in front of the flower, its huge pistil breaking out from the circle of petals.
I have small, pointy breasts and my neck is circled with Mesopotamian jade. I rest my hand on my waist, bend my knee. Maybe the bowl in my left hand holds the last dregs of wine. My face is raised, my forehead crease-free. I laid it to dry in the bedroom, clothes draped over the bed and office chair, clothes dangling like scarecrows on hangers. I slept, floating on detergent perfume, feeling content, if not happy.
Or the other way around. A hot day in the third century. I dye silk with the red pigment of Kusum flowers and wrap the cloth around my behind. I daub the two moons of my breasts with a golden paste of musk, sandalwood, saffron. After brushing my teeth in the morning, I tapped out hydrogen peroxide and ammonia into a glass bowl and whipped them into a cream.
My eyes burned and my nose tingled as I smoothed the paste on my face. I silenced my phone, and your unsaid words stacked up into missed calls. I took quick, shallow breaths with my mouth, the bleach fumes hot on my palate. I scraped the bleach off with a butter knife and emerged golden. Subscribe Search. Balaskovits A. Baumgartner A. Dale Young C.
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