In this swimming I sit. No longer dusted. I am a wet whirl, whorled. Like quicksand, but the air. And it’s hot. Motherfucking HOT. I wear a thing that is like a sheet but pretty. Breasts akimbo. My hair edges slick-sheened with sweat. The room has stopped pulsing, now it just compresses. The dogs lay dead on the wooden floor. They were breathing and now I don’t know. I could check their tongues but I cannot move. This is where prayer takes over.
When the air around you is inescapable…all sixties orange-blurred, fat paisley and spinning…all you want to do is not move. I am a dead dog too.
If we could just turn on the fans, fillet our skins to get to the underneath, fill our orifices with ice maybe. Pay a man to keep us cool. A guy with true dedication in his heart. Wearing overalls, shirtless. Mid-thirties, pre-maturely gray. Pockmarks. Kind eyes. A feeling of obligation deep within him. That would be nice. A kindness to one another.
Lift the hair from the nape of my neck and blow there.