The Gory Glory Days

This does not make sense.
  October 21, 2003

Ah, we’ve had our times, my love!  The gory glory days.  Do you remember?  I do.  From the first bloody second to the last sanguine moment, through the interim bleeding nick of time, I do.  The kitten murmur of my stomach in the morning before I’d assuage its restless hunger with another pint of amber brew from the cold reaches of the faraway fridge.  (You sold peaches on the caraway bridge?  Words wash over me and drown me, love.)  The snow that fell softly on the trees outside and inside our trailer.  The trailer itself, that auspicious boat we fearsomelessly sailed through the straights of life, now permanently moored in the farthest acreage of Paradise Mobile Home Haven.  (We mocked old dyslexic Mr. Paraside for his mistakes, but was he to blame?  We poured recklessness into the world of our young days, love, and collected bitter compassion into the void that it left).

The games we used to play…  That pinky of mine you hacked off one morning when I wasn’t looking—very sharp of you, and I still chuckle at the memory.  The teeth I used to collect from your mouth like timid April flowers.  Or were they pearls, and your mouth some mollusk from aqueous depths that bestowed throughtless beauty unto blind humans much like the rest of nature does?  I’d assemble your smile on my desk like a bouquet, or perhaps a bracelet, and it would glow faintly in the dark and illumine our nocturnal romps.  Darling, dear, expensive, costly, wife.

Years don’t run like rabbits.  They fly like jetliners stung by bumble-bees and I follow them, waving your head on a stick and reciting rhymes that make absolutely no sense.  But underneath the mustache hides a mischievous grin, the same I wore the day I opened the lid squeezing your mind and reset your memory to nil.  The gory glory days, love.  Do you remember?  Of course you don’t.  But I do.

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