Let’s try again. She comes on a bike. She comes dressed in black, or—better—midnight blue. The bike is shiny, silver, scary. Not scary. A little scary, but you’d never admit it. She serves four. She serves eight. She serves as many as can fit around your dining room table. She built that table. Or so she says.
No, no. That’s all wrong. She comes from the city, or the country, or any country, or a state you can’t pronounce, if you prefer. Ste– steato– she rotates, arms out, like a plane or what is to become of planes anyway. She serves hundreds, thousands. (Maybe at your dining table. Maybe at everybody’s dining table simultaneously.) She packs the theaters, the opera houses, the mezzanines and the balconies. It is scary, and you can admit it this time. Those who cannot hear are deaf by circumstance; those who cannot speak are dumb, by choice. It’s unclear if she is dumb or not. After she has long since stopped standing, she is still standing, or so she says. The glass is swirled with handprints in two pairs. The rest of it is wiped clean.
No, again. She comes by plane. What is to become of planes, anyway? To dust, to scraps; she comes in scraps; she comes by scrapyard, that’s it. And she goes by hydraulic press. It’s a witchy way to go. Reassembled, she is two tongues more beautiful than any other woman reassembled. Armpits to shoulders to legs and all between. Footnote: scrap, not grave; tongue, not shade. Those who seek brides are monsters by circumstance, and the brides themselves are blind by choice, obviously. So she’s now your land to claim. A relic of it, a piece on your dining room table, and she serves all who sit. She serves you and that’s it. Because she’s dead. Or so she said. This is getting too confusing—
So scrap the lot and back to basics. She comes in gingham pink, with a wide smile and a bandana not unlike a crumpled tricorn hat. You can look; she is only two hands and one name less real than any other woman. She has a pretty neck. Or not so pretty, if you want to keep her. Footnote: too dark, roll back. Basics. She serves two, four, eight, sixteen. She serves all your crystal children. Made one way, then another, made a pie, made a pancake, or so she says. She made; she makes; she smiles and smiles more.
Or not: what if she comes out fighting? Teeth sharp and tight. She says bitch with impunity and nigga with zeal. She laughs at Jay-Z getting beat up in the elevator, and when you say have some respect she says something you can’t repeat. She has a pretty mouth. Or not so pretty, close up. This time the hydraulic press is her whole body: up top, the deck; down below, the hold. She gets seasick, never vomits. When it comes to her, you can be vulgar: tits the deck, ass the hold, serves sixteen, nineteen, seven hundred plus.
But here’s the real deal. She comes at night and during the day. At the park and at the schoolhouse. She’s been here the whole time and still she comes from nowhere. From the ground itself. It’s a witchy way to grow. Here’s the deal—in Boston, it was molasses that brought the city down. Washed over the streets, filled peoples’ eyes, ears, noses, suffocated and drowned them. She drips from your ears. She’s in your books, your paintbrushes, wormed her way into the purest corners of the world. She’s in her art and yours and that which is hers which is actually yours. She rubs off on your clothes. The smell of burnt sugar. It is scary. It is terrifying, and you should admit it. She rushes through the streets, wobbles on bricks on brown on black on bones on bones on bones on bones on bones
or so the story goes. In the end, she serves you, and that’s all that matters. She labors for you soundlessly. Mops your floors and takes your trash over her shoulder. Inside the plastic, bones clang together like laughs, like geese resting on the riverbed atop the bodies. They don’t exist. She takes it well. She takes it like a slap and bows. Maybe she is angry; maybe she does not know how to be. She exits house stage right, house whose four foundations rest on bones. A trembling. She built this house, or so she says. Or so she never says.
2025