Weekends
On the weekend I run, miles and miles over mountain trails. “You run too much,” he tells me. He has a belly, soft and welcoming. We lie in his bed. He traces my muscles with thick hands. “Soft,” he whispers. I am not soft. “Your bed is too big,” I say. I crave largeness. I taste pavement on his tongue. He is city-bound, concrete safe. I love his big bed, flannel sheets. “Sometimes I think you don’t like me,” he says. I love his big belly, so unlike my own. Opposites attract. We drink beer in the morning, out on the deck. Watch the tide come in. Salt grass, marsh smells. “I could die right now,” I say. I don’t want to die. I am healthy. I run so that I will never die. He will die early, heart attack or maybe he will defy odds, live to be a hundred, meat and potatoes the whole way. Life isn’t fair. Triangles are more beautiful than circles.
Night
In the dark, sex swims between the flannel sheets. He is too heavy so I am on top. Hair swinging, hips jutting, legs straining. I kneel before him. The body of Christ, my mouth opened to receive the host of his tongue. On and on, we sweat over the flannel sheets, our mouths small animals, whimpering. “Stay,” he says, but I never do. Sometimes I stay, sleeping in his warm bed, dreams twisting and falling so that I am a fat man and he is a runner woman. The Indians believed we could catch dreams, hold them against the night air like fragile moths. “I don’t want to dream,” I say. His eyes are closed. He can’t hear me. He runs in his sleep. He calls this love.
Mornings
Mornings he eats eggs and sausage, dead pig smells. I eat oatmeal, bland and thick. His lips smear with grease. He savors. I swallow. We lie on the floor with the newspaper. Is it Sunday? We read to one another, halting and slow, the language of children. We are children, lost and afraid. We romp around the floor with the dogs. He smells of dead pig. I kiss him hard. He cups my flat runner’s breast. Our skin hides veins and bone. We ignore our heartbeats. We are flawed, the morning air soft and moist against our ugly feet. We sit on the deck and watch the sky. The veins in his wrist hurt my eyes. “Please,” I say. He can’t hear me, maybe I can’t speak. I wait. Wind licks my hair. I can no longer feel my tongue.
Escape
I sneak out of his bed, steal his dogs, escape to the mountains, running. The air smells of devil’s club and clover. It’s mid-summer. Endings can be soft. My breath is hard. The dogs run ahead. We jump over bear scat. Brother Bear, the Indians called them. I talk with bears, but only in my throat. I run for miles, my shoulders wet with sweat. The sun blinks, I could be lost. How would I know? My stomach is flat but inside I am a big man sleeping in a big bed. The early morning sky spreads rich and thick. “I want to run to the sky,” I say, but the dogs don’t answer. We are nothing but muscle and bone. I run so much that I no longer bleed. I miss my blood, my stink. I want to be a fat man sleeping in a big bed. My dreams hurt. My body is hard but inside I’m a circle.
That’s a lie. Inside, I’m a jagged, sharp line.
On the weekend I run, miles and miles over mountain trails. “You run too much,” he tells me. He has a belly, soft and welcoming. We lie in his bed. He traces my muscles with thick hands. “Soft,” he whispers. I am not soft. “Your bed is too big,” I say. I crave largeness. I taste pavement on his tongue. He is city-bound, concrete safe. I love his big bed, flannel sheets. “Sometimes I think you don’t like me,” he says. I love his big belly, so unlike my own. Opposites attract. We drink beer in the morning, out on the deck. Watch the tide come in. Salt grass, marsh smells. “I could die right now,” I say. I don’t want to die. I am healthy. I run so that I will never die. He will die early, heart attack or maybe he will defy odds, live to be a hundred, meat and potatoes the whole way. Life isn’t fair. Triangles are more beautiful than circles.
Night
In the dark, sex swims between the flannel sheets. He is too heavy so I am on top. Hair swinging, hips jutting, legs straining. I kneel before him. The body of Christ, my mouth opened to receive the host of his tongue. On and on, we sweat over the flannel sheets, our mouths small animals, whimpering. “Stay,” he says, but I never do. Sometimes I stay, sleeping in his warm bed, dreams twisting and falling so that I am a fat man and he is a runner woman. The Indians believed we could catch dreams, hold them against the night air like fragile moths. “I don’t want to dream,” I say. His eyes are closed. He can’t hear me. He runs in his sleep. He calls this love.
Mornings
Mornings he eats eggs and sausage, dead pig smells. I eat oatmeal, bland and thick. His lips smear with grease. He savors. I swallow. We lie on the floor with the newspaper. Is it Sunday? We read to one another, halting and slow, the language of children. We are children, lost and afraid. We romp around the floor with the dogs. He smells of dead pig. I kiss him hard. He cups my flat runner’s breast. Our skin hides veins and bone. We ignore our heartbeats. We are flawed, the morning air soft and moist against our ugly feet. We sit on the deck and watch the sky. The veins in his wrist hurt my eyes. “Please,” I say. He can’t hear me, maybe I can’t speak. I wait. Wind licks my hair. I can no longer feel my tongue.
Escape
I sneak out of his bed, steal his dogs, escape to the mountains, running. The air smells of devil’s club and clover. It’s mid-summer. Endings can be soft. My breath is hard. The dogs run ahead. We jump over bear scat. Brother Bear, the Indians called them. I talk with bears, but only in my throat. I run for miles, my shoulders wet with sweat. The sun blinks, I could be lost. How would I know? My stomach is flat but inside I am a big man sleeping in a big bed. The early morning sky spreads rich and thick. “I want to run to the sky,” I say, but the dogs don’t answer. We are nothing but muscle and bone. I run so much that I no longer bleed. I miss my blood, my stink. I want to be a fat man sleeping in a big bed. My dreams hurt. My body is hard but inside I’m a circle.
That’s a lie. Inside, I’m a jagged, sharp line.
