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Shanna Germain

June 27, 2012

Fuck Knot

His hands in my hair, he finds it at the back of my neck,
(what my grandma called a kitchen)—fist-sized tangle
woven and inter—, strands wound round each other.

This is not play fucking, this is him, pulling the parts
of me together, hard, until I’m so raveled/unraveled
that I can’t remember which is me and which is me.

He’s a man good with ropes—boy scout, sailor—
can untangle a kite string greased with sweat and swears.
I wait to see if he can unloop this knot of memory:

My mother’s been gone six weeks—a bruise so ink-blue
my father can’t rub it off, not even with
his thumb and spit and press.

Not even with his girlfriend, blonde. Fingernails tipped
to clear, she tries to clean me, wear me back down
to pink like a new eraser. My eyes blue buttons

too big for her button-holes. She’d like to snip them, I feel
it in the way she tugs my hair, my father’s black comb
from the bathroom cupboard,

sharp teeth at the back of my neck, that secret place
where I store my fears,  sneaker-laced, looped and
bunnied into hearts and squares.

So many ways to untie/untangle the strands of what
I’ve been and what lengths I might go to, but the silver
sheen of her scissors only made ends and ends.

To the boy with his hands in my hair now, I offer my kitchen
to his fingers, hoping he will not fumble, hoping he will find
the ends that hold me piecemeal/together, tug me loose.

*

Shanna Germain‘s stories, poems and essays have appeared in places like Absinthe Literary Review, Best American Erotica, Best Erotic Romance, Pank, Storyglossia and more.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. June 29, 2012 8:53 pm

    I love this – images, flow, “voice,” etc.. . read this aloud, three times in a row – got better with each reading.

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