Last Day In April

Take me on. --a ha

I am not certain that I’d incur any significant losses by telling you I am researching bipolar disorder and pregnancy without yet having any potential query clear in my mind. Sourcing obstetricians and patients is, on the basis of contingency, a high wire act, thinking of my mother in her moribund jean jumpers, besieged fertility goddess of her time, blood running down her thick set thighs after she tripped outside a store. She straightened herself out without the use of a metronome during her pregnancy with Benjamin, her last child, only half-brother, rarely to dwell on her memory, slovenly sexual energy shared by eldest daughter with spears of pain in my shins, burdened more by sexual regret than anything, the game still on in his mind, and as my mewing 9:15 ache indicates, still in my mind too. The problem is I don’t have a clear read on what he wants. Why tell me he had an anal sex daydream with me if he wants me to behave? A good deal of the dowager’s arrogance was flattered by this admission, but the man’s passive aggressive baiting then swiping me down perplexes me. If it is mere lechery he could have had me by now, as my reactionary battalion of racial fear collapsed mid month. If these are his weapons, I’ve deployed my own somewhat subtle corral. It isn’t exactly nothing when daddy’s nonna puts poppa on the telephone to greet an African American male over 50 keeping her buttocks in fairly good hygiene, nor is it exactly nothing when this father’s sister decides to take him out to dinner. Marie’s largesse astonishes even me, but my family must appreciate the beatitude of my silence, a shotgun wedding with comedic exaggeration between us, he and I—in his mind, he fears my family will force a commitment on him if our already hairline intimacy billows away the scant coverage shielding the breasts of which he gets a good glimpse on a daily basis. No man or woman can ride this current forever, if it’s there. I’m old enough to remember M-TV’s initial launch on cable, the primitive social media of its day, making micro track musical narratives, all of which lumbered under Ken Wahl’s hairstyle. Though a-ha is an industry promoted boy band, You Tube was smart enough to take me back into time to the range of motion screaming in my soul on the refrain of its confidence. If he and I have such a hold on each other’s need, take on me, take me on, our smart phones are all but a cock ring and dildo apart, in theory, rebuilding the bridge I keep trying burn. There is nothing in my  damaged womanhood he doesn’t know. How did I stay on my knees in this fantasy? Let me correct myself: I have a secret or two left.