carried with her
a weapon: her keys in hand,
a disarming speech pattern
and no reason to suspect
her about anything.
I never tell a lie,
she said
leading me to
someone else’s house.
(how do you get away with that?)
I just never finish the story,
she said and I
hung there like a
Christmas ornament
glistening in her iris.
“How guys save me in their phone #6”
She took her time. Each stroke became longer and more sparkly. It wasn’t necessary but dramatic as was the theme and when he come up behind her to hug her, she smiled in the mirror. She patted her lips one more time letting the blue shimmer by candlelight, washed her hands and returned to the party. The back stairs were set with alternating black and white candles, twelve each and the entire backyard was covered with string lights so everything twinkled.
“Don’t you think this is dangerous?” she asked, waving her hands over her Mary Janes pointing to each votive on her way to the bonfire.
A lavender laced joint was being passed around.
“We are doing it again.”
“What?”
“Thirteen stories.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“So,” Petesia clapped his hands together and went over the rules for the newcomers as she took her seat. “One person starts–they set the theme. Last year it was ‘Video Game or Nightmares’ and we were supposed to guess which is which after each story. This year…”
Osiria cut him off, “This year we have no theme because we haven’t started.”
Timidly, Ava cut in, “Isn’t the theme Shakespeare in Space?”
Orb laughed loudly next to her and Jelinda shot a glare his way.
“Well, it’s a Midsummer’s Night Space Dream but the theme of the stories and game can be anything,” Petesia said.
“So this is how it works,”Osiria immediately turned her attention back to the circle. “Someone starts the story. The person who starts set the tone; the theme of the story and the rule of the game. We go around until we get to thirteen. Since there’s now only ten of us, three people will go twice. The last person has to end the story that the first person started.”
“What’s the catch?” “Mr.” asked taking the joint from Ophelia.
“It’s got lavender in it,” Cat said.
“No, with the game.”
“Well, legend has it that whoever it ends on is cursed.”
“Mr.” passed the joint to Pan.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Annnd…” Petesia interjected.
“Annnd, we make you tell us the weirdest thing about you .”
“Ohhh, cool!”
“Well we did that before.”
“Or you have to confess all your secrets.”
Pan passed the joint back to Cat who winked at Petesia quickly.
“Or maybe act out the story for us.”
“That’s not all, “ Petesia pointed at Artemis letting his fangs shine.
The crowd waited.
“The story comes for you,” he winked, not at Artemis or Ava but at Cat. “And it comes to life.”
Osiria grabbed the joint from Pan before he could take a drag.
“Who wants to start?” she said. “I start almost every year so I’m trying to pass this time.”
“Oh you play every year?” a woman in a fairy costume asked.
She had named herself “Eliza.” Petesia and Osiria nodded at her.
“We try to keep them kind of short though,”Osiria looked at Artemis.
“There’s only ten of us, “ Marco said, circling to the group.
“Three people will go twice, “ Cat turned to gently remind him.
“I’ll go first!” Artemis cheerfully volunteered.
“Really?” Osiria shot her a look.
“Yeah, I love games!”
“So…” she rubbed her hands together and looked at Petesia across the fire. “The first story is called…The Woman Who Walked for Miles.”
“The 13th Story”
I plan to spend the year
fat; replete in web
and feast.
“the web”
the first thing you notice about me is
the way I saunter when I walk anywhere,
even to grab a ginger ale from the cooler
“it’s my favorite.”
but then linger near the
exit the rest of the night with the crumpled straw
in my hand
and the temper on my tongue
contained,
but I’m waiting for a siren
to let this thing out.
my name is artemis.
sometimes buildings just catch on fire.
you say I always crouch with a
bow in hand.
“I’m just nervous.”
and that when I am lying I look away really
fast so you can’t see the smile spread
across my face and you know
I fucked your friends
and you know I’ll fuck some more
and you see me on the screen
my name is Artemis.
parting lips, combing bangs,
practicing inflection as I said
I would.
you said you’ll always remember
the way I laughed LOUD
and so sudden like you were the funniest man in
the whole world.
and I’ll always remember
the first time I was invited anywhere.
my name is Catarina Kocurek
may I come in?
you said yes.
no, it’s not that you said yes.
you said “ok”
as I walked across the welcome mat
throwing matches as you swept.
“how guys save me in their phone #4”
rainstorm.
unscheduled and I had been
comfortable in shifting drought.
avoiding the wasps
hidden in the grass
with my clumsy, calloused toes
seasoned from walking too far
and too hard in unpadded sandals
when the first sign of spring hits,
and my sky blue sundress seems a
sudden hindrance:
flimsy, strap always falling down and
blows up in breezes
so I have to keep watching the way I
carry myself around men.
I crouch and the hem crawls to
expose my left thigh and the
garter you gave me:
not the daisies I wanted,
a ring of bruises
in the shape of your open mouth
still fresh with conquest;
lasting impact of
your parting breath that
said nothing and now
just hangs there and hurts
when I shower.
wait
I’m counting cicada shells
under the picnic table;
a gesture of presence.
someone told me to stop everything
and I needed a year to pass.
I scrubbed away the last of your fingernail
but I have to ride those
bite marks out.
blinked once and a ripple in the sky
burst; liberated and aimless,
she shows just one day’s worth
of self-containment uncondensed,
without tension, falling naked
she’s black and soft and
seamless surfeit with mild
violence, crackling and
completely cageless.
my feet are covered in mud
before I even notice the shadow
wash over my bangs.
wait.
drenched in flood my head
is dark red because you liked
“subtlety”
and I liked demonstrative movement;
a hint of auburn wasn’t enough to show
blood with just a little bush
so I adorn myself with ritual:
hair dye and cleanses,
little thorns,
little kills to draw your
attention. my knees hurt and
all those cicadas are dead
so I stand to lift my face to the thunder;
a small gesture of inflorescence.
Wait.
open my arms purposefully
like petals of a rose exhaling
in relief for the drink
her master brings.
parched from the work my dry words had done
undoing
as they roamed free all over
your front yard.
God makes pacts with penitents
and you barely have a face that isn’t
my reflection so I’m itching to be clean and
fresh and start
again.
stretch my neck with pride to
to catch her drops on my tongue,
bold with repentance
and ready to wash away
the phantom jaws that bait me.
but suddenly charged,
the gray sky remembered
she held lightning.
and suddenly illuminated,
I remembered
I am
the dark thing
inside of me.
“prayer”
She took him down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs to a single room at the top. They passed a couple doors on the way but the apartment was relatively abandoned. He heard no movement in any of the place but their own and even his lady walked with a bit of a tiptoe.
“I’m renting for the night before I drive home tomorrow,” she stated placing the shorter silver key in the slimmer silver door.
“Where are you from again?” he asked her removing his hand from her back to check his phone for the time.
Flinging the door open, she tossed her pocketbook on the end table, ignoring his questions. She turned around suddenly and placed her palm over his phone.
“Get undressed.”
She had him tied to the headboard and blindfolded him before he could registerd the time or check his texts. He was naked and she was tying his feet to one of the posts as she began.
“I don’t like chit chat and I’ll review the rules once more,” she said.
“Can I see you?”
“No.”
She watched him lick his lips.
“Can I have some water?”
“No.”
He licked his lips again.
“Rule #1: You will only be allowed to touch me after you follow all of the rules. If you do get to touch me, you have to ask before you do anything. Do you know what that means?”
He hesitated, bound to the wooden frame and unable to see her; her apathy and mocking eyebrow lift as she cooly sipped a tall glass of water out of his reach.
“I have to ask before I touch you.”
He licked his lips.
“But what does that mean?”
She moved closer to his face.
“That before I touch you I have to ask.”
She licked her wet lips next to his ear.
“But why didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you ask all night?”
He said nothing. She took a sip of water and let it dribble down her chin but caught it in her palm before it hit his lips.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s keep going.”
She placed the glass on the nightstand next to him.
“Rule #2: You must repeat after me when I say ‘repeat after me.’
She waited.
“I said you must repeat after when I say repeat after me.”
“Yes, I will.”
“No, you don’t get it. REPEAT AFTER ME.”
He licked his lips again and moved his head to the right slightly.
“You must repeat after me when I say ‘repeat after me.’
She opened a drawer and took out a metal pinwheel and pressed one of the edges to his nipple.
“Ooh. What is that?”
She bent down and licked his cheek as she moved the pinwheel across his nipple and over his chest.
“You’re very hairy,” she let her tongue run up and down his cheek close to his ear.
“Yesss,” he smiled.
“Repeat after me,” she whispered. “Rule number three.”
She kissed him on three, she repeated.
“Rule number three,” he repeated,catching on.
She put her mouth to his mouth so she could breathe directly on it.
“My name is Hecate and I enter your dreams every night.”
“My name is Hecate and I enter your dreams every night. Oh, wait. Should I say your name is Hecate?”
She picked up a red lighter from the drawer and lit one white candle on the nightstand.
“Say it both ways.”
“My name is Hecate and I enter your dreams every night. Your name is Hecate and you enter my dreams every night.”
She picked up the candle and sat on the edge of the bed.
“The first story I am going to tell you is about the woman who saw her own death and tried to out run it. Your job is to listen and to figure which story is true and which story is false. “
He laughed.
“You’re fucking something else.”
She let one drop of wax hit the same nipple she had been running the pinwheel over.
“Esssh,” he let out a noise and a wince with his jaw. “Ok, how many?”
“I will gag you if you talk during the story. You are only allowed to talk when the story is done. You may ask only one question to figure out which story is true,” she let another drop of wax hit, “but you have to wait until I finish the whole story and have to ask it immediately afterwards so don’t fuck it up. Yes?”
“Yes!” He winced a bit and raised his voice.
She reached for the glass of water and raised it over his lips.
“Open your mouth.”
He licked his lips and parted his mouth only partly, a tiny shudder passed over him that only himself, the trained psychologist, or herself, the trained sadist would notice. She let the cool liquid dribble onto his lips at the same time she let the hot wax trickle over one breast to the next. Reaching his neck toward her, he lapped at each lip.
“Good boy,” she said. “No talking. I’ll give you drops of water as you need them.”
She stood up and walked around the bed to sit on a stool that was placed at the end of the bed near his feet. She set both of her bare feet on the post spreading her legs wide, wide enough to reveal the sheer black panties underneath her blue and cream and floral sleeveless dress that iexplicably matched the groomsmen the way the body shimmer and the tinsel neck piece had.
“It’s called The Woman Who Saw Her Own Death: The dream about the alligator”
She saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed his own spit for moisture.
preoccupied with two men
but not against my trespasses.
my name is Hecate.
came with two friends but ignored
the male.
my name is Hecate.
intently staring straight
but hawk-like periphery,
I know because she brushed my arm
when I waltzed past and cut in between them
but with precision.
like she was waiting.
my name is Hecate.
had a dream about her.
had a dream about her every night
this year?
she slinked into the party
dressed like a rubber cat,
snapped her fingers and said:
my name is Hecate,
repeat after me.
“3.”
repeat after me
the first thing you noticed about me
was that you’d seen me before and
my s l o w southern accent,
my impervious sway and
bit of a drawl but mostly
the way I smirked:
sometimes red-hot,
sometimes ice-cold.
my name is Lilith
you called me cool
and unapproachable and
my name is Lilith
felt
the outline of my torso move
in a light rescinding way
like the edge of a storm changing
course but
my name is Lilith
you called me Lilith first.
when I was a kid
my dad played this game:
he would ball his fists and
stick his arms in front
of us
start turning them over;
one over the other in a circular
motion like a machine; the way
gears turn round
and round and he would repeat
the phrase
perpetual motion.
we would start to laugh;
those secret games
only family gets.
he would say go ahead, Sarah,
you can’t stop it;
it’s perpetual motion,
go ahead, go ahead
in his thick New Jersey accent;
Wild Irish Rose on his breath,
and a pack of Merits nearby
one burning in the ashtray.
my brother pinching or
poking me to distract me.
I was so small.
I would reach for his arms but
he used his might and
kept turning them like
he was churning something.
the dog was usually howling
and I would be overcome by a fit
of giggling listening to Matt’s
sarcastic comments, watch the smoke
drift from the table and my
mom somewhere near smiling
and he was right:
I couldn’t stop it.
I was too young
and weak.
he would just roll his arms,
his hands clenched and say
perpetual motion
perpetual motion
sarah sarah it’s perpetual
motion.
I would scream and
jump on top of his forearms
to prove him wrong
but everyone agreed that was cheating.
it was the emptiness
I couldn’t take;
the space from the post to
my side and the absence of
words between that.
and also the unbridled
mood swings.
the way no one saw me
or heard me or checked
in.
I would spend hours
pacing the small corridor, the
tiny living room and saying things
out loud to myself:
I can make it
it’s fine
I can make it here
or I would turn it up
as loud as it would go and
vacillate between the pacing and
jumping up and down, twisting
a necklace or straw
in my hand
and I would picture only one thing:
breakfast or dinner
with a man it wasn’t
the man, it was the nourishment
I craved, the nutrition
I lacked and the double security
of food and laughter.
it always took place over a meal.
I reached for it every time I felt
anxious, every time I had a
major transition–the savior returned;
the reverie of an unconditional
ear, someone placing their hand on
the small of my back,
handing me water,
congratulating me on completing
a piece and asking me
the question.
.
I rarely pictured the warmth
in sex that wasn’t what
I lacked. it was the question I wanted.
he always held space for
the long version.
taking a bite with my fork,
it was cooked or take out
or restaurant, it didn’t matter.
it was warm and filling
and good.
he would say
tell me again
and I would begin the story
where it began:
January 5, 2014,
I arrived in
Kensington to awake
from the middle of a
perpetual daydream.
no, the thing
about your brother
“Sarah,” she gently said,
getting my attention again.
I look up from the top of
my thermos to see my therapist.
“You were going to tell me more
about your brother,”
she repeated.
it’s Thursday, I’m between worlds
again and we are finally
opening it.
“synchronicity”
my heart was a brass bell:
frozen,
staid,
caught between two
hungers, and I’m asking
you if anyone ever told you
there is no time.
you demand cogency,
a nightlight,
me at your bedside blowing
ardent lullabies.
here I come in linear order.
in the end my gown will be
doused in the close shouts of
someone you love;
I will be draped in
the slow and constant drip
of her;
the residue of
skinned bones rouging
my cheeks with their sudden
red cries that blossom into
spells I tie into crown,
rest on my head
like a prize
as I am laid against
my slain and coffined
in confession before I
rise but you should know
so I’m writing it.
I would pluck at my
backbone to charm her
into weave, into
conjure her discordant euphony
that produced a mild shock
of light to remind me
I contain some very black
nights but a
torch lodged deep in
coccyx, and a dream;
sketch on marker web,
write the titles
in my thrumming patient way,
my hum,
my black belt bullet tongue
of song rising with summer,
and a damn stitched in
spine ready to synthesize
in crescendo
downward like a flash
flood and
you should know the truth
as it happens and the
past as it really
was and me, risen
growing full of hell
with each new moon,
full of part
with each new
sun.
you should know
what I mean
when I say
my hands contain a deluge.
“the flood”
daturamoon.com 