• SibLINGSHOT

part 5: interruptus

I press my nose into her belly and open my mouth. My nostrils filled with long dark hairs. Scented by musk. Damp not with arousal, but confinement. Her pants. Her jeans. Toil and walking. I open my eyes and look up at her, over her pubis. Her head lolls faraway atop a pale mountain, the graceful pillar and tendons on her neck. The cool slab of one shoulder, folded blade turned away from me. I open my eyes, then, and fasten my lips on the dark flesh of her cunt. No gentle cleft, but spilling from its canopy. Sharp. Pungent. Confrontational. A wound which has expelled three children, the long midnight sex which drew my seed. Alive with the sense of toughening. I probe the entrance to it with my tongue. An exploratory nibble. Conscious of depths winding back through her cervix, into her womb. The sweeping red wall of it. The ticking of its pulse. I tease out her clitoris and massage these folds which envelop it. Follow her labia down to where it sits on the arch of her buttocks. Caress its mended tear with all the tenderness I can muster. Her fingers on my left ear now, the gristle, as I turn to examine the stretchmark at the core of her thighs, the white scar of it there as long as I have known her. Solitary. Almost abashed. Singular. A fissure in the landscape of my map of her. I open my mouth and drink of her. Wash my face in the river which springs from the heart of her. Listen to the rhythm of its current. There is quiet here. Healing. A potency of volcanoes. The potential to turn all to ash. Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, she will be gone. Taking our son with her, the son I would not let go. And my stepchildren are delighted, and my older son will miss his little brother. And my little son is too little to be perturbed. So I sit at her well and I listen to the sound of her leaving. Her pockets are steep to the strings of her coil. 


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