RUSTY BARNES
The Dirty Inequity of a Relationship 5:50 AM up a dirt road winding like a Slinky
and down at the end into a hollow cup
with a cabin parting the fog and a slim glance of light reflected in the window.
Sadie says the key to her heart hides in the water licking the shore sixty yards away
but I’m more concerned with the cabin key hung behind the chair on the front porch.
I dump my bag by what looks like an ancient and chipped chifforobe painted spotty black
with a peace sign emolliated on the door, something you just have to laugh about:
god’s eyes hanging on the wall; a dreamcatcher over the bed; crystals lumped underneath
the mattress; the over-modern bedside table with a cell phone and a box of condoms rising
to my attention on top of a lavender tissue box. Voices carry from the lake so I dress down
for the walk across pine needles and the occasional root rising to meet my sandalled toe. Sadie sits nude
and hugging herself on a rock a few feet from the end of the barrel-dock, water ruining itself down her muscled
back the way a stream runs toward civilization whether it wants to or not. I’m floundering my way toward her
trying to metaphor my way into her charms as a rock lodges itself between my toes. I’m not watching where
I’m going but instead where I’d like to go when the sun shifts its way behind a cloud the way Sadie gets shy
as she gets dressed back in the world. I step onto a rough-wooded dock and she disappears: parts
the surface: leaves a gleam: a wet spot: a trail of damp- dark hair. I leave my sandals beside me and dive off
the dock leaving some of the meat from my toe after as a way to say yes I’d shed blood for you.
All those cliches have the power to make you wish I were beyond them. Truth to tell I am never beyond
them; they are my favorite words to describe you and this cabin this time is the place I will make them
every one true as the dive you took centers my being on the shadow of your body licking the surface. Like
oxygen to the spaeman (who knows the future?); you think I’ll never again be able to live without you.
What’s worse? I might.
Page 1 |
Page 2 |
Page 3 |
Page 4 |
Page 5 |
Page 6 |
Page 7 |
Page 8 |
Page 9 |
Page 10 |
Page 11 |
Page 12 |
Page 13 |
Page 14 |
Page 15 |
Page 16 |
Page 17 |
Page 18 |
Page 19 |
Page 20 |
Page 21 |
Page 22 |
Page 23 |
Page 24 |
Page 25 |
Page 26 |
Page 27 |
Page 28 |
Page 29 |
Page 30 |
Page 31 |
Page 32 |
Page 33 |
Page 34 |
Page 35 |
Page 36 |
Page 37 |
Page 38 |
Page 39 |
Page 40 |
Page 41 |
Page 42 |
Page 43 |
Page 44 |
Page 45 |
Page 46 |
Page 47 |
Page 48 |
Page 49 |
Page 50 |
Page 51 |
Page 52 |
Page 53 |
Page 54 |
Page 55 |
Page 56 |
Page 57 |
Page 58 |
Page 59 |
Page 60 |
Page 61 |
Page 62 |
Page 63 |
Page 64