I will not bore you with the details of Sal's salvation and induction into
the world of the poor that we all know and relish. I will only retell the
story which I have heard, and which I watched unfold. I will not just yet
elaborate as to how Sal came to be afflicted. But I will say this; Sal has
been saved and Sal is afflicted.
Sal is turning fourteen this day of December 23. A kindly red-haired opera miss is holding a dance in her honour. Sal is wearing the lavender dress I gave her and hopes that her favourite boy will notice the way that it compliments her chocolate eyes and her chocolate hair and her chocolate boots. It has chocolate lace. She is even eating chocolate. She's looking in the mirror- she's fixing her hair.
She is young. Too young. She is perfect, porcelain. She is fragile. She has scars that scream my name; portend as the intense flicker of a candle which is just about to diminish. I want to save.
So tonight, fourteen at last, they giggle sadly upon the bridge and remember. Tonight we take a carriage. The day is hers.
But looking beneath the dress I see the open wounds that seep beneath her luscious breasts. Oh to heal! Heal dear Sal, please heal quickly. Her peaches complexion is so sad. I cry for her discreetly- a tear or two are free to evaporate. I would like to evaporate with her- live forever as steam! intermingle! become liquid! freeze! Oh to be so solid. The horses keep trotting. Don't stop, don't stop. Her hips could hold you up, but I would like to hold them. I fear the worst.
Sal is chatting loudly, obnoxiously. My eyes are big, black, they are rocks pounded into arrowheads. My mind is a spear. I know Sal. This is not my Sal. No, this is not the girl who held my hand and talked of moonlight making the magic beings alive again inside her. This is not the one who touched my ribs and made my heart jump! out of its cave and beat again. I had thought I was dead until she touched me. Where is Sal? You have her face and her eyes but you are not her. The horses keep trotting. Oh honey please keep going.
She is still wearing my turquoise ring on her caucasian hand. If I could somehow get it back, I would give it to her all over again.
I watch from the balcony. She dances with the boys. My drink is sexy. I'd like to pour it all over myself. Don't stop, not yet. Maybe my toes would get drunk. Maybe my rib would forget her hand altogether and we could go on dancing like life was worth living. My ribs, my toes, my heart, my eyes: we are too wise.
Now she is walking over to the punch table. Now she is letting him pour her drink. Now she is laughing. Now she is saying something. Now they are glancing up at me. Now they are giggling. Queer. Queer. Queer. Don't stop oh God. I look at my toes. Maybe they are drunk. I don't know where my shoes have gone. Now they are walking. Now they are giggling again. Now they are getting another drink. Now they are dancing. Now they are hugging. Now he kisses her. Now she is smiling, big.
I can't watch so I look down at my black slacks. My ancestors would have called me berdache. They would say: blessed by two spirits. They would say: teacher. They would say: wise. They would come to me. They would ask me. They would understand.
So here I am. I try to shut it out. But still I see them. Now they are walking. Now they are locking the door. Now they are kissing. Now she is spilling her drink on my lavender dress. Now she is not caring. Now he is unbuttoning the dress. Now they are breathing fast. Kissing harder. Now he has an erection. Now he ignores her scars. Now he stops kissing her. Now she lays down on the hard wood floor. Now they are moving together. It feels so good, don't stop.
I remember her braiding my hair. An Indian princess. I remember the olives we ate and she said my skin was this colour. I remember her clutching my skin.
Now she is getting up- there are splinters in her back. He is not noticing. Now he's cleaning himself up. Now he's buttoning his pants. Now he's leaving her alone in the dark closet.
Happy birthday, Sal.
Now I'm walking down the stairs. Now I'm passing the crowds. Now I'm opening the door. Now I'm handing her a blanket. She looks up at me. How could you let this happen? We are asking each other the same question.
Her eyes are sadder than mine as she fixes her dress without looking and stares me down and mutters, "Fag." Oh baby, it feels good.
Sal is turning fourteen this day of December 23. A kindly red-haired opera miss is holding a dance in her honour. Sal is wearing the lavender dress I gave her and hopes that her favourite boy will notice the way that it compliments her chocolate eyes and her chocolate hair and her chocolate boots. It has chocolate lace. She is even eating chocolate. She's looking in the mirror- she's fixing her hair.
She is young. Too young. She is perfect, porcelain. She is fragile. She has scars that scream my name; portend as the intense flicker of a candle which is just about to diminish. I want to save.
So tonight, fourteen at last, they giggle sadly upon the bridge and remember. Tonight we take a carriage. The day is hers.
But looking beneath the dress I see the open wounds that seep beneath her luscious breasts. Oh to heal! Heal dear Sal, please heal quickly. Her peaches complexion is so sad. I cry for her discreetly- a tear or two are free to evaporate. I would like to evaporate with her- live forever as steam! intermingle! become liquid! freeze! Oh to be so solid. The horses keep trotting. Don't stop, don't stop. Her hips could hold you up, but I would like to hold them. I fear the worst.
Sal is chatting loudly, obnoxiously. My eyes are big, black, they are rocks pounded into arrowheads. My mind is a spear. I know Sal. This is not my Sal. No, this is not the girl who held my hand and talked of moonlight making the magic beings alive again inside her. This is not the one who touched my ribs and made my heart jump! out of its cave and beat again. I had thought I was dead until she touched me. Where is Sal? You have her face and her eyes but you are not her. The horses keep trotting. Oh honey please keep going.
She is still wearing my turquoise ring on her caucasian hand. If I could somehow get it back, I would give it to her all over again.
I watch from the balcony. She dances with the boys. My drink is sexy. I'd like to pour it all over myself. Don't stop, not yet. Maybe my toes would get drunk. Maybe my rib would forget her hand altogether and we could go on dancing like life was worth living. My ribs, my toes, my heart, my eyes: we are too wise.
Now she is walking over to the punch table. Now she is letting him pour her drink. Now she is laughing. Now she is saying something. Now they are glancing up at me. Now they are giggling. Queer. Queer. Queer. Don't stop oh God. I look at my toes. Maybe they are drunk. I don't know where my shoes have gone. Now they are walking. Now they are giggling again. Now they are getting another drink. Now they are dancing. Now they are hugging. Now he kisses her. Now she is smiling, big.
I can't watch so I look down at my black slacks. My ancestors would have called me berdache. They would say: blessed by two spirits. They would say: teacher. They would say: wise. They would come to me. They would ask me. They would understand.
So here I am. I try to shut it out. But still I see them. Now they are walking. Now they are locking the door. Now they are kissing. Now she is spilling her drink on my lavender dress. Now she is not caring. Now he is unbuttoning the dress. Now they are breathing fast. Kissing harder. Now he has an erection. Now he ignores her scars. Now he stops kissing her. Now she lays down on the hard wood floor. Now they are moving together. It feels so good, don't stop.
I remember her braiding my hair. An Indian princess. I remember the olives we ate and she said my skin was this colour. I remember her clutching my skin.
Now she is getting up- there are splinters in her back. He is not noticing. Now he's cleaning himself up. Now he's buttoning his pants. Now he's leaving her alone in the dark closet.
Happy birthday, Sal.
Now I'm walking down the stairs. Now I'm passing the crowds. Now I'm opening the door. Now I'm handing her a blanket. She looks up at me. How could you let this happen? We are asking each other the same question.
Her eyes are sadder than mine as she fixes her dress without looking and stares me down and mutters, "Fag." Oh baby, it feels good.