She took off her slip and that was the sign to stop. Put away the wine, water the plant, and feed our dog Poke. On the record player Eartha Kitt spun the truth about love. Down her side a new cut completed the map of her skin. We were built like houses needing repair. Old ladies living at the end of small town America. We washed each other and smoked in the bathtub. My finger traced her scars with a delicacy reserved for artifacts. Poke sat outside until we finished then licked the soap off our legs as we lay in bed. Her breath rattled without the machine. It was new, exciting, organic discomfort we could share alone. I held her, feeling the veins of her hand slip under her skin. Listening to her heart lose.
Alex Dannemiller is from Cincinnati, OH, and lives in Portland, OR, where he teaches writing. He received an MFA from Portland State University, an MA in fiction from Ohio University, and first loved words at Miami University in Oxford, OH.
Photo by Emily Dannemiller
—Art by So-Ghislaine