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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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I know your nakedness.
I know your feet: sheep-milk-pale and fine-tuned, the catgut of tendons tightened to the lautari's jagged pitch. And I know your legs: small, muscular, the calves bulging like firm roadside roots, and, oh! the tapered elegance of thighs tensing at the knee, poised and balanced on the bone- a lantern-flame balanced at the smoking wick. I know those fine buttocks: hard and tight-sprung as melons, weighty in the steam of bison-grass. And I know those loins- oh! nomad mystery! a dark and unmapped country, a wilderness of pathways and disappearances, of marsh and sump, of steppe and rubble. I can conjure up that sweet belly that makes me swoon with hot and moony tenderness; and that navel, like a pagan well, with its scuffed track leading south. And that shaded hollow at the sternum- Don't say I don't know it... I know its perfect depression, where it nestles above your ransacked ribs; and I know those mushroom-blushed nipples, and their swirls of poignant straw. And that sun-starved breast leading upward to the gleaming throat that I glimpse- bare, exposed- like a windswept isthmus, salt-sprayed by the waves. Oh! I know them all- all the lonely highlands, the beckoning plains, the endearing gullies of that inaccessible continent. I picture all the places, constructing them piece-by-piece, like an exile trying to keep alive the memory of a field, and a hillside, and a swing hanging from a sky, and the face of a girl, freckled, singing for her lover, and a sad barrenness, an emptiness, and a white flower.
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