resist me

Resisting you is futile.

I knew it then, that first smile, when you glanced at me across a crowded room, watched me cross my legs and watched me look down to straighten my skirt, then look up, to look at you, looking at me, you.

My words twist, convulse, as I lie back on a soft morning, my dressing slow and luxurious, as though I had nowhere in particular to go, though I am dressing to leave for the day. I have nowhere to go, I wish, but to fall back into bed, with you, your dream, you, not here, somehow here, soon here. Your voice drifts off as words turn to meaning. You know what I mean, exactly. You are here.

I wonder, at the time, daylight savings, time lost, time spent, time waiting, time I could say I devoted to you, to desire, to the mere wonder of a moment, lost, spent, awaited, devoted, desired, a moment. One more. That’s all.

 

 

 

eighty

He would have been eighty years old today, had he lived.

If he had lived… Did he ever?

Can life be measured in a heartbeat, in a breath? Life wasted, the daring maneuvers that we think distinguish us, that seem so full, so full of life themselves. We shock, we defend, we state our cause, we climb the mountain. We drink, drum, make noise, fill our time to the brim with stuff. Are our adventures and our busy lives just ways to turn away from the vulnerabilities that make us beautiful?

Once, when my dad was dying, he told me that he was afraid. He cried, maybe the first time that I had ever seen him so small, and so big.

When I was a little girl, I loved my dad, believed in him, the reality he presented to me. But in that moment, as I had grown into a woman and seen more of life, I realized that this may well have been the first time I had ever felt that he really knew love. And in that moment, he told me that he finally saw the richness that he was about to leave behind, the long moments, quiet, the laughter, the sweetness of being that he never could reveal until the end. So sad what could have been. Knowing.. but yes, too late to know so well, to find that sort of quiet joy that only comes with time, and trust. How often do we protect ourselves into a sort of silent seclusion until it is too late?

And why? What makes a person turn away from his own heart? What makes a person stop when he begins to feel vulnerable? needy?

Opening enough to absorb love takes courage, I know. Men shun weakness, taunt one another for softness. And perhaps because of this, it is easier to be hard, easier still to hide.

A hand bitten–or worse, ignored–may stay near, but stops reaching. A heart stops hoping, its hunger denied until we starve, even with relief so close. We stay broken but still hoping–and denying that hope, ashamed to hope. Is this a lesson that a child was meant to learn? How do we sit with our heart?

I hope.

Trust is sublime, connection, transport to some splendorous realm, sensation bringing me back to my own heart–but so perilous a place to awaken alone.

Life was meant for more than distraction. Love, slow days, a hand reaching for mine, a secret, a favor, a kiss, a surprise, a word, a heartbeat, a breath, a habit, a safe place to admit that I care.

fire escape

Remember that night when your black curls tumbled down onto your shoulders, your still-sober lips tracing the outline of my neck beneath my inch-long hair? We were quite a pair then, and you said so, as we dangled our bare feet from the third story fire escape and talked about the world between us in an essential moment alone that burned into my memory as if it were a habit. Your guests chattered in the living room, their fiddles and talk of Vallejo and the light from the apartment now theirs, not ours, the smoke from a neighbor’s barbecue, the stars, the rush of the busy world faraway. It was cooler here, high above, outside, the heat and grime of the day only lingering in the  un-air-conditioned buildings and down below on the expressway with the cars and the people walking on the other side, tomorrow’s headlines  from the dangerous park across the way. You pointed to the roses there, the pizza joint with its stained glass windows and Italian statues, the woman who held tight to her purse and lost it anyway as she fell to the sidewalk, gunshots still echoing each time that you watched my old car drive up to your building and you ran down the stairs to meet me outside in this, the only affordable neighborhood nearby.

You were young then. A week later you showed up outside my work and called up to me, then realizing that we had no balconies in these office buildings, ran up the four flights of stairs. I startled to look up and see you there, insisting you had to see me now, not in three hours. I screamed to see your head shaved, your indecency now reaching its heights as you told me of your adventures, your readings,  your rock star status across the states, your friend’s car broken down for hours on the side of a rural highway, you told me. And you told me of remembering the days you spent there once before, before you knew me, and I gazed at you, reaching for your hair that never grew back, gazing at you and your lips now distracting me from anything that may have been worthwhile in my office, the ladies laughing as I wandered back to my desk, struck down by your grand gesture, your impatience, by the thrilling thought of 5:00. They knew, you see, they knew what I did not know, and I would love you then, in spite of it all, as if fate had ordered it.

It was 2am when I drove home, Aretha singing on my AM radio, a natural woman, me, your fingers lingering beneath my lace blouse, the narrow neck of it stalling you. I had to unbutton it myself. You then removed my clothing like scarves one by one, the remaining hooks and zippers and buttons and such much simpler to decipher, to undo, to push apart the openings, your finger, tongue, words so filthy, I know, mi conchita, you said, I let you, begged you, moments like this, dark summer nights, a hot mattress, the whirr of a ceiling fan, your skin, your strange words still imprinted somewhere, retrievable on cold winter days, yes, it was real I tell myself, and then sometimes like now I wonder at times what was real, even now what is real.

monday morning

Complacency reigns here, too, on a Monday, a holiday, an I have a dream day, and I dream of more noble things, of equality and justice, and persistent integrity, and I have plans for the day. But right now I dream you, here lying in bed beside me so late on a weekday morning. It is a stolen day, the luxury of one more weekend day to lie in late, to roll back in against your belly, your sleeping fingers curling my hair, pushing it from my forehead, my ears, my neck, you hard against my back as I feel your movements more exact as you awaken, more intentional as the morning grows later.

The clock ticks. I reach for the lamp switch, now gasping, electric, your fingers dancing, your lips softly setting me ablaze beneath these sheets, resistance transformed into ardent need to have you not just closer, but fused to me, thirst realized now unquenchable. I dreamed I could survive without water once, and now I drink. I swim. I could drown in it, but I won’t.

The coffee is dark, sweet, milk caramelized in the steel pitcher left too long with the steam boiling it, froth spilling out while you kiss me madly, once more, twice. I grab the pitcher, hot milk everywhere now, the oranges in the Wedgwood bowl beside the sink a still-life. I contemplate, licking the milk from my fingers, reaching for an orange. It is perfect, the milk cooling and thick, the cream whipped to put on the coffee, with the grated orange peel, the sharp sweetness as you reach beneath my peignoir now, yes I did wear it, as you squeeze my sore nipples, and the cream melts, the orange zest floating in the coffee as you push into me again, again. Yes, green birds and temptation of flesh, the desire for here, now, the world so glorious as I think of why I dream, why I fight, what wishes we all must have, what we all must know.

ashes to ashes

If we were to die suddenly, on a lovely day in Pompeii, what would we be? What would we become if we were locked in this very moment, left mute in a moment of mass destruction, a moment in time in violence, in an emphatic stop, in truth?

Would we be shackled, ever struggling to flee?

Would we hide, pull our melting tunics to cover our faces?

Would we be left waiting, forever frozen in the expectation of salvation?

Would you reach for me? Would I cradle your head against my breasts one last time as you touch my hand, my burning hair? Hair is ash, flesh is ash, among loving bones, corpses left longing, so long ago, so long.

tube

The inner tubes were there in the barn and stacked, and this time it was winter, not fall, and you were standing there at the bottom of the hill holding one and grinning at me. “Let’s go!” you said, and I went, carrying my tube up the hill beside you, both of us laughing as we slipped on the half-melted snow over ice and a weekday, and no one else near.

It was foolish, I know, foolish to be there in the cold, in the late afternoon, dark ready approaching even as we started our descent into that fearful night, the wonder and the improvisation. They are tubes, inner tubes, and not skis, not sleds, not snowboards, no canvas covers or lifts to drag our butts up the steep hill, no one watching out even as we sail down dangerously near the river where we rode on these tubes in the cold autumn water such a short time ago.

Your bare hands are red, now, raw, you damn you, always ready even when you’re not, always wanting to take me on these adventures. And I go all too willing. You remind me, it was my idea.

The heat of night awaits us, somewhere, in the glow of a fire, in the glow of love suspected. Your hands will still be red then, but warm as your fingers unfasten, trace temptation.

The thrill of it, the cold, the stunning slide, clouds dark along the horizon that is visible from up high, yellow lingering low in the sky as the brilliant blue turns pale, then nearly dark when we both lie laughing, soaking wet at the bottom. Only one ride today, a sudden urge, a moment stolen from no time, from the precious bite we take from it, from thoughts, from dreams, from the promise, from life.

’twas the night

Merry Christmas, lovely readers!

And to those of you who do not celebrate this holiday, I send you the same wishes of goodwill and merriment.

I watch now from my window, a small quarter circle of intricate woodwork and glass that looks out onto the water, and the sunset. The sun has now gone completely, and night is here now with all its magic and its dreams.

Night in its mystery brings the gift of flirtations, of the unseen, of possibilities.

To those readers who have touched Lady Dragonfly in very real and personal ways, thank you for that gift, for the love you have inspired, for the heat, for the words you have brought to my mind and my soul.

To everyone, may you all find inspiration in snowflakes–real or imaginary–in stars…  in the very naughty twinkling eye.

there

Faraway, Sylvie pulled her car over and stopped.

The warm day had changed into cold night, and the wind against her face was no longer refreshing. Dark skies seem so vast, so lost in ways, even in a world that feels welcoming in the light.

Rejection. That was really all she could call it, she had decided.

She pulled out her phone. No messages. Not from Todd. Certainly not from Jean-Paul… it all was supposed to be so much fun. The lovely French lover should never have been in the middle of such a mess. And the bartender. Well, it all was the makings of a delicious romp. If only.

And it would have been. Sylvie had fueled the first hour of her drive with anger, with her fury. Todd had pushed her away so vividly, rejected her desire for him. He came close to her, his gentle stroking, his own lust apparent–then pulled back once more, as she had felt in much less obvious demonstrations for months now. But why?

It was always that, though, wasn’t it? Sylvie imagined herself rejected for all that she was, for her wanton desire–which evaporated nonetheless when she felt Todd sever the emotional connection. She imagined him needing to demonstrate that she was unworthy of his love, tempting her with the very thing that he seemed to desire most himself, degrading her, in fact. It was this, then, wasn’t it? It was her sexuality that he rejected, her sexuality, perhaps the most noble and beautiful part of her, she thought. Strong as she was, she still needed the grounding of his love, still wanted him.

It is always the wondering why that is so excruciating, Sylvie thought.

But of course, Sylvie also knew about the unmentionable, the failures in Todd’s own life. When his own business began to go badly, everything fell apart. He seemed suddenly afraid. He never said specifically that he was frightened; he wouldn’t. But Sylvie knew the facts, the figures, the late nights spent restless, the phone calls, the reality of his financial situation.

Todd could never fail her for this–in the scheme of things, his material successes never mattered so much to Sylvie. She told him she still cared, that she admired him for who he was, and not for what he could buy. But the more she tried to reassure him, the more she seemed to push him away. The band-aid of her kiss only seemed to disguise a much deeper wound, and kept it from healing.

What hurt, Sylvie suddenly thought, was Todd’s refusal to be vulnerable with her. It was a test, she decided. Great love becomes stronger when we can reveal our weakness to another, when we trust. But perhaps the wound was deeper than any trust Todd could have for Sylvie. Maybe he needed first to trust himself. He seemed to need that, needed to feel strong again in some way, too.

But not by hurting her.

Sylvie sat looking over at the faint lights, not truly so faraway, but she was lonely and tired. 9pm, her watch said. Not so late, after all. And the fact still remained that she had work the next day. She had been unfair to Jean-Paul, and had left everything in ravels.  Sylvie reached for her phone.

She dialed.

“Yes, I’d like to make a reservation.” Sylvie started the car as she answered, “For one. Just one… Yes, one night.”

assumptions

“Knock first,” he had told me, “then come in. I’ll be at the computer.”

I knocked, and opened the door.

“Mr. C?” I called, glancing around at the immaculate house. The walls were mint green–a dark pastel like the dinner mints that used to sit by the cash registers of many fine dining establishments around 1972. I could hear the strains of “And the Angels Sing” coming from a room toward the back of the house and wandered beyond the quiet living room. Cords for the oxygen ran across the pink-beige shag carpeting that started just past the kitchen. Mr. C was sitting at his computer with a big screen television to the side set to the easy listening radio station.

“I could use a little help,” Mr. C told me. He told me about the arguments, the near-deaths, the losses, the housekeeper who had not yet paid back the loan he offered to her. He told me, in fact, what it is like to be ninety years old and dying.

“My life is such a mess,” he sighed, then taking out a picture.

“Now this one…” he started.

“I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for this one.”

Mr. C’s wife had died a few years ago. He showed me a picture of their burial plot, space waiting for him with her, the words “Together Forever” above both of them at some point–he had expected to go first, years ago. He took out the picture of the woman again.

“Oh.. but we looked at one another and that was it.”

“She’s beautiful,” I told him. “How long has she been gone?”

“Oh–this isn’t Agnes. Agnes died six years ago.” Mr. C set the picture back by his computer.

“No.. well, it’s a long story. One of the guys brought her over one day, said I’d like to meet her. So we talked, and then she and I started having lunch. Of course, she should have told me a little sooner that she was married.”

“But I like her husband. He calls to talk sometimes.”

Mr. C said that the arguments he mentioned had started when his daughter saw the unmade bed, the bed where an old man lay on foam wedges with his friend, both curled up to nap together in the afternoons.

Arguments, but I wonder what it was that upset the daughter so much. Was it as Mr. C told me–that she thought he was betraying her mother? Or was she–are we?–uncomfortable to think that we can face death and face love at the same time? How wonderful, though! how beautiful to be reminded that we are never too old, too sick, too anything to enjoy not only a warm heart, but a warm body, as well.

how deep?

Deep love. I am twelve again, and the song is okay. We can dance to this–not dance, but sway, hands on shoulders, sway, standing close enough to touch and not look. This is disco, yes, but not the gold chain shame that will fuel my swerve toward guys with skinny ties and short hair. No, this is make-out music or wishful thinking. It always will be.

I can fuck you. I can hold you, even with a song, and strip off all of my clothing, cradle your head between my legs as you lick me and reduce me to moans. Yes, I can bare myself to you this much, I can.

But this, this night fever, this is something else again. I laugh as I take the record carefully from its sleeve, blow off the imaginary dust and set it down on the turntable. The album is pristine, stored in a closet or a basement for thirty-plus years, never played maybe–a gift, a time capsule. I lift the arm, and set the needle down carefully while you watch me, this ritual of music so ingrained in both of us. It is a holiday, a lighting of candles, a chant we know by heart and not mind, even now, years later.

Adolescent timidity tries to invade my body now, too, tries to overtake my urge to swirl, here, right in front of you. You are the cute guy in the front row, and I have a crush on you. I blush when I catch you turning to look at me, your gaze terrifying because you might really see through me. You smile back, because you saw everything, and you know now. I cannot hide.

It is the same smile now, and I am damp, panting within seconds to this music. John Travolta walks down the street with a paint can. You take my hand, you–you must have been more leather than lycra, too–your cock hard as you pull me abruptly to you, the ancient rhythm pounding, the falsetto unforgivable, and yet we succumb to it. Years later, we find ourselves still resisting that beat, the flashing colors, the darkness. We no longer make fun of the kings and queens in their flashy clothing; we make fun of ourselves as we become what we once dreaded here on a makeshift dance floor. I am tempted to brush your hand away and start laughing, but I make a wish instead and give in.

We are bolder now. You want me. I want you. I know you will watch me as I step back. I let you, let your lust build as I watch you watch me begin to move, not moving my eyes not once from yours. I dare you, and you move in toward me.

I am stripped bare now, my heart pounding not from the effort, but from you, your steps into my steps, the steps I could not take when I was twelve, or sixteen, or even twenty-five. I take them now, we do, and I turn now, smiling, letting you watch me smile and turn and want you.

We are staying alive, yes, alive now more than ever before, alive from head to toe, the body electric, the past and present here before us, naked, the junior high bullies, the knowing truth at seventeen, the nights at home, the notes forgotten, later too, when this music fades, and we are bleary eyed in lost sleep and heartache, the chances in life that miraculously do come again, even now, even better, and my life flashes before my eyes, now transformed somehow as I see we are the same, we are here, we understand. And you are beautiful.

Yes, of course we are alive, and separate, we want, yet fear to want. And it is this, desire, is it not? Is desire ignited by anything more than it is by standing back and letting a breeze catch, looking from some distance and seeing not only skin and heat but context as well?

Deep, I do not know how deep rivers run, much less how deep love runs.

In all of us, in every way, it is deeper than we ever think it can be.