hree am and I'm fingering this sensual length of wood as though it were some part of my physical body, thinking poppies poppies - bloody bloody blood hands - over and over again, thinking that maybe I shouldn't be here, maybe I shouldn't go, unable to stand up and get a cab, unable to stay, either, wondering how I would deal with the sight of horses at this hour, that perhaps Celine would want to leave soon, because I can't go without her, she's a lady, I couldn't leave her here in this squalor, the others here, a mini cross section of races and even class, nauseating, pure, prostrate, the way I should be in some cathedral, making love to that cleanliness; but the cathedral and this place, the attar of incense, the tiles - the tiles are my friends, my pleasant, cold friends, kissing my cheek where I lie on the floor, tossing off the blanket, breathing in the scent that comes from poppies, that noxious flower, staring at Celine where she is propped up, eyes half closed, staring at me as though she wants the act of intercourse, and the numbness in my hands and lips makes me love her, makes me less desperate, less frantic. Just relax, all you have to do is lie here, all you have to do is breathe. nth
Photo © Jennifer König