Polk Place, 1935, Wilson library in background: William Waters, IV
We stood
on the steps of the old library at UNC-Chapel Hill, the fall of my
sophomore year. We were on the top step, having emerged from the
stacks blinking, blinded in the day's light. My backpack was heavy on
my back. I was wearing a Mexican-inspired red ruffled skirt with
desert boots, an ensemble that I imagined bohemian in otherwise
preppy 1982. He put a hand on my shoulder, and I felt his dry palm
through the thin cotton of my shirt. The same bumps on my skin rose
at his touch as do when I step into sunlight. The bare skin receives
warmth and then, shocked, feels a chill, the goosebumps, then the
warmth spreads to the tips of the fingers. A sun sneeze. His hand lay
there, on my shoulder, so that I couldn't move. I heard
his voice, low, in my ear, a whisper. If we
lived in Cro-Magnon times, he said, you would never have
survived. I would be the wild cat that ate you up. The
steps under my feet were hard, wide and shallow. I was stuck under
his hand and couldn't open my mouth. I felt his fingers on my throat,
cool and dry. Blinded, I saw spots, little black dots and at the
bottom of the steps, the world, bare and primitive, stripped.
Small Stone 21 and 22
Lord. I am swooning.
ReplyDeleteQuietly evocative and intensely erotic. Woman, how you write!
ReplyDeleteHoly crap!
ReplyDeleteI love this.
Love it!
me too...
ReplyDeletewhat they said!!!!!!!!!!