A Dark Dream,
The Tao.
She turns to him with a wad of cash and smiles drunkenly. She needs him to kill her lesbian concubine. Another body for the burn pile. She was standing in a speakeasy with a band at the right at break. The bar behind her outlines her back and her lithe form twisted into a laugh as she collapses in weakness on the table. No words are exchanged; he simply takes the wad and knows in embarrassment what is expected. Her husband, the lead singer of the band doesn’t take notice. She keeps her lovers in the basement like love puppies on a chain. This man before her would take care of it. She had high hopes.
She remembers her husband, the time they wove webs on a campsite ground. The time he spun music for that rustic scene, his hair dyed blond. That night he took her in the camper, raped her hard. They were lying on the dinette sofa turned bed, the fake cushions against the thin wood were stiff beneath the weight. She remembers turning her cheek to him, her dark skin unfolding under his hands. She had wanted to leave him then, divorce the bastard. But they had a chemistry, a bond that held them like a master and slave. He is white after all.
So instead, she would take lesbian lovers under him, women who would do anything for her, her pets. She would keep them in the basement and use them at her will. And when she grew tired of them, or when they grew too demanding of her, they were disposed of like arrogant cats that had overstrayed their welcome.
Her husband built a garden behind their house. I am their child and I play in the garden. The pumpkins I realize are larger than my head. “But mother, I thought they were watermelons.” Today my father is away but he and I are in the kitchen like a dream. I lay on top of the counter and feel my father take me. I lay on that counter to the left of the kitchen sink, the window above the sink overlooking the garden to the left. I see him above me. His eyes are darkened and he loves me tender. He touches my shoulder blades and I see that his hair is black. My eyes dilute in pleasure I see the intent in his hands. I love him. My mother knows.
When my father has finishes with me, I moisten my hands in dishwater. My mother will not notice the wrinkles that become there, she only notices when I haven’t done.
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