Kelsye Nelson (5.28.06)

Petit Mort

Forgive this sweetgrass woman
This sweet scent bare back
Plagued by the passion king
Tremble in your dream death, man in my bed
Dream death, dream death and
Trace the terrible scar across my belly, my breast
Tactile woman, purple woman, oversleeping
Luxury of laxitude, trash mouth
Trash mouth man in my bed burning my insides
Sparring chitchat, fearing my father, together,
The threat of the boot
Ducking under cover of tall meadow grass,
Sandal-free toes tracing curve of freckle-dappled leg
Only the animals know where we lay
Trash mouth trash mouth my sides are burning
My insides are burning on this
Lonely pine needle bed, magnificent receptacle of death
Dream death, dream death, my dream death
My little death, passion king
Forgive this sweetgrass woman.


Desert Revival

I.

I met my friend in the desert; the woman who is occasionally blonde and who sings in bars where people stand and clap and fall in love with the way her voice breaks on the high notes and overpowers the clamor of the bar, the street and the din in their heads. She held my hand. She led me into unknown lands, over dry, crumbly ground. She identified the Joshua trees, warned me not to scrape my bare white shins on the stubby cacti and whispered to me that whiskey tastes better when it's warmed by the sun. She loves Jesus. She wants me to love Jesus too, and I do, when I am near her and she is singing to me, or laughing drunkenly at what I have written in recent wandering weeks, or when she is standing near and our arms rub against each other. I'm not supposed to lust for her, so I pretend that I don't. She pretends that I'm not pretending.

I'm married. She's divorced. We both partnered with those sweet sensitive types. Neither of us are as patient or giving as our husbands. We boss and bitch. We moan and groan. Her husband wouldn't stand for it. He left. He was strong in that way. My husband is not strong in that way. Thank Jesus for that.

She loves me. We pretended otherwise. I acted like I didn't know that she was pretending not to lust for me. She suggested the wine. I read her what I wrote on the plane, on the way to see her. She cried. Then she laughed. Then she took me to the guest bedroom in her grandmother's house made me kneel on the bed, facing her facing me.

She likes to sing songs written by men with deep thundering voices. Those Seattle men. Those forceful, soulful, dreary, men. She assumes their power. It isn't right – their darkened voices, darkened souls, darkened songs coming out of her round desert glow face. She has baby pure skin. She has chubby arms. She has Marilyn Monroe lips, and breasts. She has dark circles under her eyes. She had draped my arm across her thighs and run her rough, guitar string fingertips from my wrist to my shoulder. Goosebumps in sweltering summer heat.

She wouldn't like what I am writing. I'm not supposed to lust for her. She would tell me this isn't the way to Jesus. This isn't the path to salvation.

I gave her the money to record her first CD. My husband told me not to do it. I said he doesn't understand how talented she is. He told me I don't understand how poor we are. I do understand. That is why what I do give is all the more valuable. I would much rather invest in her songs than a week's worth of beer and bread. Which is really the pointless waste? She doesn't know about our money problems. You're a success, she says. I'll never be like you, she says. Thank Jesus for that.



II.

It's Tuesday and I left her a week ago. My husband is cooking spaghetti and listening to the war reports on the radio. I'm sitting at the table with my laptop, surfing the Internet, tying up the phone line. She called me earlier, but I made an excuse and hung up. I loathe the sterilized long distance connection. I can't see her skin. I can't see the dark circles under her eyes. God has a new plan for me, she told me. The record producer loves her. He's going to marry her and make her a star. She'll send me a signed CD in the mail. Fantastic, I said. I hate the record producer, but I love getting mail from her. Evidence of her existence.

III.

My husband pretends I don't lust after her. He takes me to bed and lets me assure him of my fidelity with my rolling moans and rocking hips. He spoons me afterwards, his arm heavy on my hip. His thick fingers intertwine with mine. I make my breath deliberately slow and pretend I'm sleeping, not daydreaming. It'll be at least another year until I see her again. Thank Jesus for that.