The note says thighs and shoulders, mouth and eyes.
I wait tables at an upscale restaurant in Belle Meade. I’m eighteen
with an invitation to spend a day with a forty-year-old man –
play tennis, dine at the country club. Here’s his card.
Anthony builds houses, drinks bourbon at the bar, drives a Porsche,
smiles with dark eyes, trick eyes. He calls me
beautiful.
I bring his food on a round white plate. He tips well. I need money
for college. I am a flame-thrower. My heat strips the night.
I am a cracked window, a broken latch, an empty cupboard,
a lost key. I am a vision, Anthony says. He leaves me love notes,
beautiful eyes.
I am a dark cavern, a lonely owl in the night. I am a tattoo of birds
that fly up and off my arms. I keep Anthony’s card in a drawer by my bed.
Anthony is waiting at the front door of the restaurant. Anthony is watching me
count tip money. I am a tidal wave wrecking the shore. I am a lost pier,
somewhere out at sea. I am a fish – flesh and scales. I am bait.
I am a river cutting the canyon, a train surging between coasts.
I am learning how it feels to be a woman
and a man is a man is a man is a man is a
man.
Header photograph © Rick Lingo.
About the Author
