Fabulae

Sunday Morning and the Light

Sunday morning and the light slips through the blinds in crazy zebra patterns she believes, for an instant, are attached to their bodies— lazy, playing, she moves the now-unfamiliar angle of her elbow back and forth among the shadows. What happened with his grandfather: I remember we sucked each other’s penises. I remember liking it, he says simply. A six-year-old boy, the fabric of his pants eased off the light skin of his belly. She can’t see the man’s face, just hands reaching for the child’s waist. When did it turn, when did it turn from pleasure? He says nothing as a breeze pulls the blind to the window-frame and lofts it out again; church bells through the window, a hymn in hollow alto chimes all out of tune. Why did you ask what happened with my grandfather? —Because it’s a part of you, she offers after a moment, having nothing to offer but this: the time she found a single egg, cream-brown shell against pale earth, still warm. She could not touch it without knowing it had come through the body of some living thing, and somehow still belonged to that. She wanted to drop the egg and at the same time stand very still and hold it until it became something light, as much a part of herself as breathing. 28 ...