Women's Liberation in 1953
Where's your mother and where is your father? Two little children are locked in the cupboard. Out in the real world walking on the high wire. What would you give to just fly away and be safe in the moon? Oh to be in the moon with a fishing pole dipping into the sea of space. Your smile is like a window to the world I want. It's a good day to die. At least it will be after I am with you.
"Did you convince yourself that it was ok? Did you lay it all out on the table like China to your heart's feast? Huh? Well, answer me. I said answer me stupid girl. "
"Uhh I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know? Did the metaphor fly by you? Am I too mean? Are you scared? You should be."
She ran out the door and slapped the wooden blanks of the screen door like she was hittin the fire alarm in a burning house. The door snapped back like all good country back porch screen doors should. It stammered twice and shook to a stop. I pressed my face against the mesh so that my forehead could be seen from the outside. I watched her run through the cotton field that was being saturated with late September sunflowers that had blown down from seeds on the farm above ours.
"Run little girl! Run til you can't run no more and then run some more. Run til you fall down and can't remember where you from."
I could hear her breathe as if she were running away from a cotton gin eating her dress. I could feel her heart beat in my palm. She wouldn't be back in time for supper. She'll sit up on that hill til it's dark and she thinks I be asleep. I'll make her some chicken with pig jelly so she won't have to wake me up with her banging in the kitchen. I'll leave it on the table with a sunflower and my denims that need sewin for tomorrow's work.
The poor always have that look to them. They have that high greasy forehead that sticks out a little and is littered by the occasional acne spot. They have that slouched posture that reeks of Nintendo and Cheetos. The poor little greasy faced girls have their hair in pony tails and their jeans too tight as their go-all-the-way up legs are all that they might be proud of. But to the smellers of the poor we just see it as another badge. There is always this sense of heavy molesting clouds that surround their bodies. Like walking dead sacks of hot oil. The passion, the fights, the fucking and the tears are all there. But it's more like hot oil flung into a vat of friendly water. It boils it up and lets it down. It curdles to hard and then sits and smells. It smells of poverty and disease. It let's you down in your soul and you sniff up your nose and turn your head. You remember what you once read in a Hesse book; "You only hate what you don't like about yourself." You shrug and smell your shoulders and check your hair. You jingle the keys in your pocket and make sure that you look just like everyone else that has two 20's to rub together.
We touched hands like two birds touch wings. Quickly and sensitively our fingers dangled on each other's extensions. There was a sense of sweat and slippery touching. The same way you feel when you have someone naked under your weight and there is still kissing and examination of someone's hair and eyes. The heat of someone else's skin pushed against yours as you breathe into each other's rhythm is better than most any feeling. There are soft parts and hard parts that mesh together to create a perfect balance of body and bone. Two birds touching wings are courting. They make love as they fall to the ground. They make love even before they touched wings. They made love a thousand times by just looking at each other. They made love in their own minds while their eyes darted with intentions so passion driven that they couldn't keep their fingers touching. There was simply too much electricity. There was simply no room for sweat and love in the time it took to dive to the earth.
