man at her side was tall and handsome and somewhat sly-looking.
2002, a child born.
Later that same year, a vaguely-worded piece in the police blotter about a domestic disturbance.
And in 2003, the death of her daughter from brain cancer. “Funeral services to be held Friday, August 8. At the request of the bereaved parents, no flowers please. Instead, donations to the Cancer Research Society.”
I couldn’t find anything about her divorce. The next bit of information I could find about her, aside from that awful post from 2004, is the article about her death.
Every time I close my eyes now, I see it. All day today, since I learned about her death. I close my eyes and I see her naked, tied to a post, and the shoppers are ignoring her cries, ignoring her struggles, loading their carts.
The second-to-last time I ever saw her, she finally told me about her recurring nightmare.
“I keep having this dream,” she says, and her lips feel warm against my neck. We’re under a thick quilt on the ragged sofa, and she’s fondling me almost absently while she talks. “This nightmare. About my stuff. There’s a store, see, a shop. And it’s selling all these things and I look and see that it’s all mine. It’s all of my things that I’ve collected. And there’s all these people and they have shopping carts and bags and stuff and they’re loading up with these things that belong to me.”
Her fingers had been having an effect on me, but there’s something so dreamy and disconnected about her voice now that I lose whatever I’d been building toward. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“And I start yelling. Telling them to stop, to leave my stuff alone, it’s mine, it’s not for sale. And there’s a line at the cash register and some fat bitch is ringing them up and they’re leaving the store with my things. And suddenly I’m naked, and I’m tied up. Tied to a post with this thick black cord. And I start screaming, leave it alone, leave my stuff alone, it’s mine, it’s mine, you can’t have it!”
For a second her hand tightens on me and I wince. But then she lets go and her fingers rest on my stomach. I feel her eyelashes flutter against my jaw and I’m not sure but I think I feel something hot and wet running down my neck.
“And I’m screaming, it’s mine, please, it’s all I have, please don’t take it. Begging, right. And I’m struggling to get free from this stupid post. And this man, he stops and looks at me. He’s looking at my body, ‘cuz I’m naked. He’s leering. And he says to me, he says nothing belongs to you, girl. You have nothing. It will all be carried away. So I start crying and pleading, and he laughs and I realize that I recognize him.”
Charon is talking rapidly now, still in her bland monotone, and it dawns on me finally that she’s revealing something, she’s opening up, and I’m not sure if I want her to open up, I’m not sure if I want her fears to rub up next to mine like this. I’ve been able, so far, to keep myself emotionally removed from her, or so I think. The truth is, I’m already caught up in her, I’m just too self-centered to realize it at the time.
She says, “I recognize him. He’s you.”
The post from 2004. I found it at one of those poetry websites, where anyone can show their work and have it critiqued by fellow poets. I don’t know if it was good or bad, and I don’t care. By the time I finished it, just a few brief lines, the computer had gone blurry and I couldn’t see.
These few possessions
These skins I put on
Are meaningless save for the fact that they are mine
This tender thing I will define as belonging to me
And no one else
But the man who sees me naked
And tied to the
2002, a child born.
Later that same year, a vaguely-worded piece in the police blotter about a domestic disturbance.
And in 2003, the death of her daughter from brain cancer. “Funeral services to be held Friday, August 8. At the request of the bereaved parents, no flowers please. Instead, donations to the Cancer Research Society.”
I couldn’t find anything about her divorce. The next bit of information I could find about her, aside from that awful post from 2004, is the article about her death.
Every time I close my eyes now, I see it. All day today, since I learned about her death. I close my eyes and I see her naked, tied to a post, and the shoppers are ignoring her cries, ignoring her struggles, loading their carts.
The second-to-last time I ever saw her, she finally told me about her recurring nightmare.
“I keep having this dream,” she says, and her lips feel warm against my neck. We’re under a thick quilt on the ragged sofa, and she’s fondling me almost absently while she talks. “This nightmare. About my stuff. There’s a store, see, a shop. And it’s selling all these things and I look and see that it’s all mine. It’s all of my things that I’ve collected. And there’s all these people and they have shopping carts and bags and stuff and they’re loading up with these things that belong to me.”
Her fingers had been having an effect on me, but there’s something so dreamy and disconnected about her voice now that I lose whatever I’d been building toward. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“And I start yelling. Telling them to stop, to leave my stuff alone, it’s mine, it’s not for sale. And there’s a line at the cash register and some fat bitch is ringing them up and they’re leaving the store with my things. And suddenly I’m naked, and I’m tied up. Tied to a post with this thick black cord. And I start screaming, leave it alone, leave my stuff alone, it’s mine, it’s mine, you can’t have it!”
For a second her hand tightens on me and I wince. But then she lets go and her fingers rest on my stomach. I feel her eyelashes flutter against my jaw and I’m not sure but I think I feel something hot and wet running down my neck.
“And I’m screaming, it’s mine, please, it’s all I have, please don’t take it. Begging, right. And I’m struggling to get free from this stupid post. And this man, he stops and looks at me. He’s looking at my body, ‘cuz I’m naked. He’s leering. And he says to me, he says nothing belongs to you, girl. You have nothing. It will all be carried away. So I start crying and pleading, and he laughs and I realize that I recognize him.”
Charon is talking rapidly now, still in her bland monotone, and it dawns on me finally that she’s revealing something, she’s opening up, and I’m not sure if I want her to open up, I’m not sure if I want her fears to rub up next to mine like this. I’ve been able, so far, to keep myself emotionally removed from her, or so I think. The truth is, I’m already caught up in her, I’m just too self-centered to realize it at the time.
She says, “I recognize him. He’s you.”
The post from 2004. I found it at one of those poetry websites, where anyone can show their work and have it critiqued by fellow poets. I don’t know if it was good or bad, and I don’t care. By the time I finished it, just a few brief lines, the computer had gone blurry and I couldn’t see.
These few possessions
These skins I put on
Are meaningless save for the fact that they are mine
This tender thing I will define as belonging to me
And no one else
But the man who sees me naked
And tied to the
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