Alabama Poets
|
Vertical Divider
A second touch can mean anything
but coincidence, and this has to be the fourth time she’s run her hand up my forearm and asked about the girlfriends I don’t have. She asked how that could be and reminded me of how she used to be curious about black boys in school. Something about contrast. Pretzels and chocolate. Salty and sweet. She’s moved on to asking about the boys I might be hiding somewhere. I might have denied it three or four times before she admitted that she was just teasing because she loved the way my mouth shaped the word “no.” I’m shaking my head, but I’m not moving her hand away from my forearm. I’m still here dodging the glint in her eyes because I want to know how much she’s willing to give up to have me knock on the door of her blood slick fantasy. I’m pretending I don’t hear her husband behind us asking the same questions to a group of girls giggling nervously into their cups. I’m pretending this night hasn’t ended before with my body hollowed out and hung as tribute to Honor or Boredom or All Deliberate Speed. It’s too much of a mystery now. I want to know how much she’s willing to pay for a body I planned on giving away to the earth two months ago. I’m waiting for a number on the bottom of a napkin. I’m waiting to be offended because I want to imagine myself next to all the other flesh of my family who’ve been bought in this state. A valuable servant still has value, and I won’t ruin my family name by leaving with her before I know that she knows that I came from good stock. Good enough for the richest man in Montgomery to hide a child in us. Good enough for the governor to give a speech at my father’s retirement. Good enough to be a dream neither one of us can afford. 
|
|
