by Kim MacMonkey
(11/05/03)
Love is a notion you can no longer swallow. I understand that. I've been there myself. The word is a stale cracker in our mouths. For now we'll just nibble on the edge of this parking lot.
I sit in my car with no thought of company, only the anticipation of a secret spelunking. My finger dips readily into the darkened valley and withdraws. I run my moistened digit along the inside of my lower lip. The texture is the same here, lips above and lips below. You watch with intrigue, and fabricate a more reasonable explanation for my movements, lunch, maybe, or an invisible phone call. My finger disappears again beneath the steering wheel of my sedate white wagon. My eyes close and my head tilts back. You are convinced now. How could it be otherwise? You have seen this look before in the mirror or on the face of your midnight partner. It haunts you.
You have come here for similar purposes. Your hand was on your zipper as a bus rolled by, and then a Pepsi truck. Unsure, you withheld and placed your hands on the wheel, ten and two, and stared straight ahead out across the rippling lake.
A dog, a car, something draws your attention again and you turn toward me. I am looking right at you. My hand emerges and my tongue darts out to greet it. Your eyes grow big. Mine close, and my nostrils flare, and I sniff, sniff, sniff as my lips surround my finger in a perfect snug little o. I open my eyes and face you, trembling the slightest bit. I lift my soda and draw the dark liquid up from the ice. I remove the straw from the cup, covering the top with my thumb. A slim wet column is trapped by suction. I lift my thumb and release a dribble down between my legs. It is cold, but I think you called out louder than I did. I turn the key in the ignition, and for a second I see panic on your face. Will you yell for me to stay? You simply grasp the wheel tighter, hands firmly anchored at ten and two. Verdi pours from my radio as I lower the windows. The radio goes off. The breeze is picking up. I dribble soda down the mounds of my breasts and again between my thighs. This time we clearly gasp. If you look hard enough you can see my nipples straining against the fabric of my blouse. I'm not wearing a bra. Can you imagine how the silk must feel against my naked skin? How my belly is traversed by a sweet and sticky trail?
I kiss my palm with my fingers outstretched. My hand covers my face like a menace, like a silent conquistador. My nails are sharp as I draw them down my chin, neck, and lower. You can no longer see my hand, but you can probably feel it, buried as it is in my snatch. I roll my clit between my thumb and finger. Can you feel it as I thrust my middle finger deep inside me? I can feel how your bottom twitches on your seat. Even with my eyes closed I can see the beads of sweat on your upper lip. I can taste it as you bite your cheek and draw a tiny spot of blood. You'll carry the wound for days, and when you can't resist jabbing it with your tongue, you'll think of me.
When I come I make a sound like a mourning dove. It is a coo, round and deep, and I don't hold back. You can grit you teeth if you want to, but my bird flies free. I coo and flutter and squawk. And although my phrase has no language, we both know its meaning.
Swallow me, I say. Swallow me. Swallow me. Swallow me.
