Jerusalem Alternative

Lying on a couch of blue and yellow, I drape over the sides like a piece of stray shawl, feeling like a figure in a Mattisse painting. My elbow and back ache with a pain that is not desire. I do not notice the bump until later, the distinct feeling of something sticking out, and curse myself for not taking X-rays. Radiation - how unromantic.

Meanwhile, I breathe in the scent of pine trees, ignoring the numbness spreading through my arm, and envision caffeine dripping into my body, atom by atom invading my bloodstream, running into my bladder in rivulets of pure coffee. They say that withdrawal killed Amy Winehouse. I picture her sitting there, brown hair framing a fading face, waiting as the lack of poison wreaks havoc in her body. I think I love her then; this woman I have not met, whose music I've only heard twice - I hear her voice singing melodies I half-remember.

The wind stirs the glass door, and I grow afraid. I hear the mewing of cats, a song of mourning in the distance, and I long for the days when I did not care enough to curse caution. I only cared enough to laugh in his face before climbing trees. I would throw down the rotting apples;their skins were mushy and soft, like the inside of your face, like the space between our thighs.

"Call me a woman", you once said, thrusting out your chin like a phallus.

Today my echo was lost amid pine trees and a rush of crappy cars.

"The search for woman is eternal. It is a search for the fountain of life, for our youth, for our joy, It is a search for ourselves."

I am still calling