I once heard an old Egyptian tale about a man who walked 3,600 miles
through the desert just to get home to his wife, who was dying a slow death
from a rattlesnake wound. As soon as he got through the door,
he kissed her so hard her bones cracked. Tonight Iâm reminded of this
as you slowly pull off your shirt, lifting it over the top of your head
with both hands as Iâve seen you do countless times before we made love
on the floor, the table, the dining room. The thin white cotton falls
to the carpet like a snake shedding its skin.
You reveal yourself to me.
Every scar climbing up the inside of your arms another mile,
the ones that cross each other in the middle like railroad tracks
another two miles, the ones that shine the brightest- three.
I count them and realize that each one was a reason for survival,
and survival is not a number divisible by any other number.
So, instead of arithmetic, I hold you tonight,
picturing the red blood cells making their way through
your blood vessels, which would be over 80,000 miles long
if laid out end to end. When I feel your collarbones become wet,
I take a tear on the tip of my finger and gently slide it
into your mouth. Here, I said. Taste this.
Youâll never find anything else like it. Thatâs what surviving tastes like.
But in my head I was really thinking about that old Egyptian man,
and how he eventually made it home to his wife, yet here I am,
not even a millimeter away from you,
and it still feels like the Grand Canyon between us.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
