By Jane Shore
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They're always wanting you to do them a favor. I have never eaten at the celestial Maxims and so escaped the embarrassment of not knowing which fork to use. Instead, I am sinking into your three hundred dollar mattress, this fleecy hunk of white bread. Remember when we ate our way through Italy? My hair fanned out like spaghetti on the pillow and the pensione smelled garlicky under the sheets. I have always wanted to fall for a nomad and be swept away like a tent. Or be folded up neat as an altarpiece.
Puffing out hot mouthfuls of air, they are chugging like locomotives on the track to the lake. Once I was one of them: stuffed, zipped into my parka, so insulated against the cold I couldn't feel a thing lacing up my skates. Teetering, my sawtooth blade-tips catch on the slatted wooden ramps, and the world goes horizontal, the world is this flat sheet of ice. Wind at my back like a large impersonal hand sends me skidding off to where the island is. The whole island is no bigger than a living room.
Only the traffic of moonlight, until a passing car brands its sliding diagram of light upon your face. Steering into the city limits, I begin to enter the world you call your life. All night you checked, rechecked the map, smoothed like a lace skirt across your lap; and now, shielding your breasts, the clear circuits of red and blue all the routes of your heart decipherable at last! I turn off Page 43 the dashboard's dim constellation. A plane threads the darkness of the evergreen. Attentive to an echo, a woodthrush flits under the eaves.