Desire (that girl I once knew)
(by Veronica McDonald)
Desire’s changed.
She used to be sort of sexy
like sweet-smelling trash
with heroin-chic cheekbones
and pouty cigarette lips.
A loud laugh often played on those lips
muddled like it was underwater
under the wave of noise that came in
an unending hum.
Her purple, anorexic fingers
poured Kamikazes and tequila shots
down my throat in bursts of fire
that woke that Thing living inside of me
like she’d smacked it with a hard slap
of glitter and nail polish.
And that Thing would move
into my hands, making them
pull on the man smiling at me
grabbing his hair, his belt loops
pulling on his hips.
And my ears would fill with music—
not sweet, but hard, tribal
banging in time with the pounding
in my chest.
My nose would fill with the stench
of scotch, smoke, sweat, him
my eyes catching muted lights
glimmering against hot skin.
Seeing her now
the Thing stirs, anticipating her familiar smack
but she’s different, so changed I didn’t
recognize her at first.
Her smile’s big and warm wriggling with
nicotine gum.
The long glittering nails are missing from
hands that remind me of Grandma’s—
soft, tissuey, reaching for everything
as if it were fragile and precious.
She is light— light as air, light as
a breeze, as a violin song playing
for the sky.
Arms outstretched she reaches for Him
eyes only on Him
and it’s all for Him
only Him.
Without looking, she strokes
the Thing inside of me with the tip
of her finger and suddenly
I want Him, too
because everything around Him
is crisp and clear and fresh as a spring
Because He’s pure
Because He’s truth
Because He’s home.
Photo credit: “Woman Holding a Glass” by Paul Gavarni (Public Domain)