When People Grow, People Go

When I came with you that first time on the floor of your office, the dirty carpet under my back, the heel of one foot propped on your shoulder, I went ahead and screamed, full-throated, as loud and as long as my body demanded, because somewhere, in the back of my mind, packed in the smallest neurons still capable of thought, I remembered we were in a warehouse district and that no sentient being resided for miles. Afterwards, when I could unclench my hands and open my eyes, I looked up. You were on your knees, your arms stranded at your sides, so still – the light from the crooknecked lamp sculpting each life and delicate twist, the lax muscles, the smallest veins on the backs of your hands. I saw the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow pulsing at your throat, all the colors in your long blunt cut hair which hung over your face like a raffia curtain in some south sea island hut. And as each bright synapse unfurled and followed its path, I recalled a story I’d read that explained why women cry out when they come – that it’s the call of the conqueror, a siren howl of possession. So I looked again and it felt true, your whole body seemed defeated, owned, having taken on the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists loosely bound with invisible rope. And when you finally spoke you didn’t lift your head but simply moaned the word god on an exhalation of breath – I knew then I must be merciful, benevolent, impossibly kind.