She Says/He Says: Another Midnight Conversation
These elbow nodules, She says, are not special effects created by George Lucas, applied with glue at six, peeled off before the evening champagne cork is popped.
I like your elbows, He says, the crook where Cat curls, where my head rests, the sweet blue vein against my ear.
I know, I know, She says, but the nodules. Besides, the elbows are too near my distinctively unCherlike shoulders, bony protrusions not designed to hold up a Bob Mackie original, too frail to support the weight of lame and bugle beads.
Your shoulders, He says, seem broad enough to carry the weight of an original argument, and they are so conveniently located-- a mere tongue's lick from your fleshy lobes.
Well, She says, that's true enough. Still-- they are a nagging reminder of the limitation of my reach, and what about these scars at my knees, they're indelible, you know, the colloided tissue is permanently stitched and creeps onto the white pucker of thigh.
Ah, your thighs, He says, like marshmallow How much can I eat, and Look, He says, tracing with fingertips, The scars on your left knee come together like lips smiling.
Yes, She says. They do. I hoped you'd notice. Let's leave those lights on.