Irene loves a man who is afraid of sex-- she's attended to everything, said it was okay, held me until I slept. She says, Why don't you just not think about it? But I want to know every sensation, nothing untouched, though I pull my hand away once she's found it I can't be around a woman too long, too much. I say, I was mistreated. She says, A cup of tea? I say, I can't start a thing and then describe the kind of thing I'd start. We talk about ballrooms, long sleeves and sashes, say someday we should go somewhere though we can't think of anywhere and then I say abruptly, I've never loved hard enough to be loved back. I say it as if I've had enough of the whole goddamn world and will never be satisfied. I'm looking at the wall. She's looking out the window because she needs to be somewhere. Later, I leave a note: Sorry for the difficulties. Meaning: how come you don't leave? I've never told this story. Even at the moment of dying, I would say it was someone else's.
Jason Shinder - 1955-2008
My friend says she is like an empty drawer being pulled out of the earth. I am the long neck of the giraffe coming down to see what she doesn't have. What holds us chained to the same cold river, where we are surprised by the circles we make in the ice? When we talk about the past it is like pushing stones back into the earth. Sometimes she digs her nails into her leather bag to find out where my heart is. The white sleeves of her shirt are bright with waves when I visit. When we lie, we live a little longer— which is unbelievable. If you love someone, the water moves up from the well.