Issue 6, Spring/Summer 2008

Night-words
by Caty Sporleder

 


His hands rotate my hips until I roll onto my stomach. I relax and elongate my back. I lie with my face in-pillowed. His erection rubs against the skin just between the opening and my clit. He reaches up to the shelf above our bed and grabs the bottle of lubrication. I hear the bottle queef as he squeezes the lube onto his hand.
Head-words: “I realized today as I was lying down in the sun reading that my Domestic Desire has been sexualized.”

The spirit voice of Mary Magdalene: “A negotiation of impulses.”
His application of lubrication makes liquid noises.

“I picked a blade of grass and ran it between my teeth until I could taste the residue of green between my top and bottom. I think the sanctification process of my body has been confused.”

“The sanctification process of our bodies”

He rubs the rest of the lubrication onto and inside of me with permeating fingertips.
“I laid my book down open to chest and stared up into the sky. I’m afraid tradition only equals Reenactment. I have a sense that erotic phallibility has never been reckoned, and for me sweet devotion serves some sort of unnatural repression."
“—the story—”

The head of his cock makes contact with my skin.

“prostitutes, sibyls, mystics, celibate nuns, passive helpmeets, feminist icons, matriarchs of divinity’s secret dynasty.”

“each a well-worn path.”  

The air of our basement bedroom has already made the lube cool.
“I want to feel outside of preconstructed phallacies but I think I only exist within those preconditions.
“It felt like heaven when the Son of God slipped inside me.”
“Is must be similar to the ecstasy my mother feels when he slips inside of her?
I exhale half-a-lung’s air into the pillow. My vagina swallows as much of his cock as our bodies will allow.
“Holy Penetration!”
“When he slips inside it feels like a projected piece of ego made manifest, hard enough to penetrate only the softest most forgiving—flesh.”
Flexion in my hips, my friction covers and uncovers a small piece of him.
“Sometimes it feels like we are only milling words out of their meaning.”
Cover—uncover. Cover—uncover. Cover—uncover. Cover—uncover.       
“Every time is sacred.”
 “Every night remains full of blackness and the same.”
I reach behind us and feel his ass flex beneath my palms.
“Do you remember the connective tissue? The wordflesh that lies between repentance and penetration?”
“I’m inside you and I repent.”                
“I am pen—e—trated so that I may re—pent.”
He grabs my forearms and crosses my wrists behind my lower back.
“I thought of my mother today. I wear the weight of her wedding ring on a chain around my neck. I remembered her walking up a church aisle crowded by empty pews. The pastor stood elevated at the front of the church he said: “Accept Jesus into your heart and all of your previous transgressions shall be forgiven and you shall be united with your father in the paradise of heaven.”
“I feel slightly jealous when you tell that one.”
He holds my wrists there with one hand.
“Mother dropped to her knees. She was all wet with tears. Her tears: publicly erected acceptable doors of penetration—salvation, penetration—salvation, penetration—salvation.”
“These are the doors my memory has constructed.”
Sweat drips off of his face. The droplets find my scalp through my tied back hair. Gravity itches his saltwater against my skin.
“I hover in a place between private and public. Do you feel yourself deep inside of me?”
“So Deep that my history is you.”
I flex my shoulders and rub my wrists together trying to break his grip.    
“Tonight I will dream of my married cousin. She will be there in my kitchen making me breakfast. On the counter I will see she has a child she’s tending. The baby, prematurely born, resting on the pillow of its placenta, injected with blue dye while it was still in the womb its soft bones will show blue through transparent flesh. I will pick it and its life sack up in my hands. While speaking with my cousin it will begin to eat sharply at its placenta. After the devouring it will begin to bite hungrily with a mouthful of white razor bits at my fingertips. I will bleed and scream to my cousin. She will turns towards my hands to find them empty.”
“Empty.”
Our perspiration allows me to slip my hands free and scratch his sweat into my scalp.
“Do you remember your mother?”
“Brown-rounded belly.”
“Relate.”
He pulls my hair. I turn my head and whisper: “Don’t come. Don’t come inside of me, not yet.”
“Mother-father love spread out under the night.”
“But was it Pro-creation?”
He pulls out of me. I roll over to face him. He kisses me with an open mouth. His hands are on my back, just above my hip-bones pulling—pushing as though we were still connected.
“And the Roots of Eroticism?”
“Eros turned erroneous.”
I scratch my fingernails into his back. They slide over perspiration.
“Kissing feels good. It’s an act that has not lost its connection with the pleasure-purpose.”
“Kissing for kissing’s sake.”
I reach down between our bodies. I grab his cock and put just enough of the head inside. His cock moves forward and he follows.
“confess”
“I’ve been told confessionalism is boring”
Our bodies move together gaining momentum and energy in friction.
“My body wants to baby. And for this evil thought of being filled instead of free I seek forgiveness.”
“And for this evil thought of usurping Our Father’s creative power I seek forgiveness.”
Friction and Flexion.
“repent.”
“repent.”
His cock convulses inside of me. I convulse the stack of books off of our dresser with my still-socked foot.
“Sensation and the sounds of falling pages”
“a goodnight.”

He stays on top of me for a moment. Thrusting through a couple of lingering spasms. Excreting a few more drops. 

He rolls off onto his side of the bed. I grab the rag wedged between the frame of our bed and the mattress.

Three corners of it are crusted from yesterday, the day before, the day before.

I use the uncrusted corner to wipe the opening of my vagina clean. I flex my stomach muscles and push while I hold the rag against me. I expel his sperm into the terry cloth. I fold the fabric over the gob before throwing it toward the mountain of dirty clothes in the center of our bedroom floor.

The rag falls open and sperm adheres it to the back cover of a fallen book.I lie on my back. I place my hand on his thigh. His breath comes long and slow, long and slow, long and slow.

My breath comes long and slow.

I lie in a field of grass. The blades are long enough to conceal my body. Wind massages the field. Wind manipulates the blades against the light of the sky above me. My eyes focus on a drop of falling rain a second before it strikes my forehead.