It was always better in natural light. Nothing affected. No artifice to the day or the care given. Nor was anything added. No words. No makeup. Just the work. In full attention. And it was this, her eyes full on him and only him, her hands full of this moment and only this moment, where flesh met flesh and only the smell of cotton, the weave of other hands to witness her hands, caring, loving, in the light of the window, upon the bed and hair and thigh, upon the quilt and sheets and pillows.
Her movements he watched, movement unlike the start and stop of words, movement belying any concatenation, or structure or anything else performed or acted or built. She moved without beginning or end, without comma or period, continuous as wind, sometimes over the plain, sometimes through the narrow valley, every movement integral, a righteous integrity, the wholeness of unadulterated milk, of butter churned by hand, before wood, upon a three-legged stool.
With each touch of her tongue, he died to the glistening spear. With each inhale of breath she took him within and who was glass and who was wine ceased to hold meaning. Somewhere outside were birds; and a stream; and rocks covered in snow.
No comments:
Post a Comment