Fragments of language and story extracted from the body
–by Temim Fruchter
I never saw her blush.
–Anne Carson, “Powerless Structures Fig. 11 (Sanne)”
blush before death.
–-Anne Carson, “Powerless Structures Fig. 11 (Sanne)”
It’s not a tiptoe of color, nothing gradual, nothing floral, nothing coy. No lace or whisper, no grace or magic, no tipsy shrug. Nothing tiny or subtle or grateful or wanting or shy.
Just heat. Plain red heat.
There are so many ways to burn. I burn from the inside and from the outside and from the top. The heat stays on even after the red goes, like a bulb inside a lamp that’s been left on too long. I burn any time I see you see me, my body’s response to taking shape. I burn watching you walk whether you see me back or not. I burn a sudden cloak, a flushed reveal, an unhiding.
You weren’t first, but you were most. So when your eyes locked into mine a whole island somewhere turned pink. Hot onion pickled turnip bite pink. No roses or sunsets. This was an upset, a reddening, a storm.