Poefictiontry 1.1
Image of Rosalyn Drexler's painting titled Love and Violence.
Looming in the air between legs and sweat, I roll off the sheet as it lifts with gingered greedy hands and a stiff crotch. His hairy buttocks leaves a sluggish indent that pools an empty, Forget me, beside the small of her back that says, Forget me not.
Alcohol drips from his exhale beside me onto the floor coalescing into a gasoline spill between the cracks. Through the floorboards, I drown lost whispers and singular tears, stories that are fed mouth to mouth by dust mites and the occasional ant. Ghosts of her past trickle in, dipping toes and a giggle.
KRricKah- a heavy foot presses, lurching me up up and out, catching the edge of an arrogant callous on his toe that tips its way out of her life.
A stench of cheese and business (his socks and shoes) interrogates my senses, while a vague persistent thrumming of dense tar vibrates off the palette inside his high-tops.
Released and greased with foot sweat, the cracked coolness of linoleum eases my jogged temperature while being caught between the conversation of stubble and fuzz, and the truth of bottom cupboard condiments.
Reaching his hand down for a scratch and dig, I’m plucked from the seam of his biggest toe and the next, moving to friction of human fetor between his fingers, then fusing with peanut oil from his P, B and J, as he guides his middle finger across the blade of his knife and suckles. Being lapped between lies and cavities inside his mouth, slick viscous spit engulfs me and I slide down his throat as easily as he pushed himself down hers last night.
I see a truth in his stomach like the pit of a dried avocado seed, wilted and scathed. A little boy with white socks worn to his ankles whimpers softly in the corner of it, while clutching his knees. The peripheral of each eye is confused and afraid.
