That voice—from the tv—that voice, thick smoky cheese, or, no— dark as burnt flan, sweet, venison-sweet in the heavy smoke of a tavern hearth, and hot as brandy. I served that voice for months, in a theater on 13th near Third where losers are the ones who crack first. I gave you azured hours, nights, and you placed your soul, pretty as a dead mouse, at my feet. Gutturals, the candles guttering backstage. Your voice went everywhere you dared not put your hands.
From Swan Electric by April Bernard. Copyright © 2002 by April Bernard. Reprinted by permission of W. W. Norton & Company. All rights reserved.