five seconds caressing her arm
my long, slender fingers musician's hands trace the line along the smoother side of your arm memories of your father, you call them threatening, looming in doorways lurking behind closed eyes in your sleep, you said my witness at your mutilation the surgeon's grip is a writer's grip was your excuse proved unable to prevent exaggeration a deeper truth a container for thought celestially accurate, you said those devouring eyes i have what you call them inscrutable, misleading and other words slipped upon your privacy a knife-fighter's grip is a fencing grip four fingers curl round thumb pointed along the blade those cautious hands i have musician's hands nervous hands wondering hands you call them lunged to your arm, grasping never felt me so assertive before what you said never felt me so frightened before what i thought radial pulsed moist through my fingers musician's hands assertive hands soft, burning hands you recall later in hesitant voice, i pleaded rough, uneven discordant, high-pitched an auctioneer's voice stuttering, accelerating was your accusation we rushed directly to cold hygienic passages it must be Freudian you said reeking antiseptic mercurochrome and iodine. and now again they trace the line, the soft side of your arm follow the new lifeline askew and curving then blurred, difficult to see your narrative, memories of your father a flawless line. they lead us straight in non-Euclidean space like a geodesic, a great circle a flight from Tokyo to London you say from Ueno Park to Hyde Park i follow the story from elbow to wrist, raised unnaturally smooth deviations the result of magnetic fields and adrenaline byproducts my finger pauses, pondering the end of the line the end at your wrist, the narrative from safety to the beginning where knife parted skin curved in flat space, leading us to another border, to another line.

©1998 Timothy A. Clark