He doesn’t know about her tattoos until they sleep together. After they finish, his eyes adjust enough to the darkness so that he can make out the black ink on her back and stomach. There are three: small, medium, large. The level of grayness and fading indicate that the smallest one was first and the largest one was last. He can’t see that much detail. She prepares homemade mushroom ravioli for dinner. A girl who matches her shoes and her purse, she doesn’t look like the kind who would have tattoos. He tries to decipher their meanings and authors: Maimonides, Cummings, Shakespeare.
On the screen, a pair of giant breasts rubbed against another pair of giant breasts, each the size of a patio table if you walked right up to them. And a person could have walked right up to them, too, without bothering practically anyone, since only one seat was filled down below. Frank watched the scene from the projection booth: the four breasts mixing it up together, and the man down in the seat, angling for just the right time to jerk off and leave. There, Frank said to himself, is a traditionalist. The man had left home and come all the way here for the show.
After he hit our last halfie onto the roof of Perlstein’s Glass, Frankie Wnek stepped over the broomstick we used for a bat and shimmied up a drainpipe to get it. Frankie was my age, fourteen. Since I was pitching and gave up the home run, I was supposed to go, but when he said don’t worry about it, I wasn’t going to argue. Who knew when that pipe was going to snap away from the wall? Who knew that two older kids named Chickenhead and Toot were already up there, just for the hell of it, waiting to take turns punching whoever came up, then grab his ankles and swing him back and forth over the ledge?
In all things, I blame the husband.
Women who sleep with teenage boys, women who shoplift collectibles, Yes. Their rotten husbands drove them to it.
And that is why, when the kidnapper cracks open our new skylight like an oyster and slithers in, I don’t blame the defective latch, the alarm system, or the thin bronze shell of the new tin roof. The dotted line of fault doesn’t lead to my architect or contractor or engineer.
And oddly, lastly, I do not blame my intruder. And that explains everything that follows, doesn’t it?
In a previous life, my husband was an alley cat in Rome who lived in the Colosseum and whose purrs originated in his scrotum. Now he finds love in the belly of compost heaps and in the folds of Burpee Seed envelopes—fixed and declawed as he is. These thoughts are typical of the private games I play each morning before I visit Karen’s grave. The content of my mental life is the Swiss-army knife of daily cemetery goers: it snips, scrapes, uncorks, screws, and whittles its way to consecrated ground.
Dad just came home
from Boston like he does when he can. He drove up to the house
in his rental Mustang and beeped his horn, and then he clunked
We walk into the corner store drooling for shoelace licorice. My best friend in the whole world, even though he’s a boy, leads me through the too-close aisles, and almost knocks over a rack of Philly Inquirers. His summer buzz cut is so short, he’s almost bald, bony shoulders poke out of his Bruce Lee tank top, cut-offs, no socks in his black Kung Fu shoes. The dog choker chain that holds the two pieces of broom stick together swings back and forth in his back pocket, clanking when he walks. Manny stops in front of a round rack of key chains. He turns the rack, key chains swing, crashing into each other. I stare, hypnotized by the different plastic animals that hang from the key rings. He asks which one I like. I like the monkey best.
I do not know him and never
will: old spitting man, man in suspenders. Anyhow, everyone’s
grandfather is like this. His has some yellow teeth and some are
Radio Lung’aho’s whisper rose from the darkness, barely audible over the hissing of cicadas outside in the Kenyan night.
The little boy is disgusted by the
monkeys but adores the lions as his peers adore their older brothers