Thursday, March 5, 2015

Flint stone

We ate flint stones, he and I, hoping that it would calm the yawning, cavernous hunger we had for each other. Sometimes, when we make love, I imagine the flint sparking in our bellies, filling us up with wet fire--the thick, miasmic smoke of a burning house.

My mother ate stones for a man once, and waited for the burning. I can see her in my mind's eye, stomach fat with flint that had nothing to rub against. I can see her now, swallowing gasoline instead, waiting this time not for burning, but for explosion, for burning down.

This is what we are now, loaded and incendiary. We are the war children, they keep us away from the wax museums, from hairspray daughters and beer-bottle sons. We are a bomb State, we wear grenade pins for earrings. Highly inflammable, handle with care. 

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