Jaguar
Like a roll on a loosened snare drum and a fuzzed out bass line, she slides down one of my hands. I can feel the smooth drift and moan of her keel under my fingers. I warned her, I am tactile in nature. The bouts and gulleys of her intrigue my fingers while I rearrange myself to better hold her. She is mostly passive, but easily woken.
The plumbline of her spine twists and compresses with movement Stanislav Szukalski could never muster in sculpture. The dust, illuminated by the square beam of evening sun coming in my window, eddies and pools in the lee of my moving hands. She is lean. The long, tall Stratocaster looking on is not an analog for her. The Strat is a large guitar, asymmetrical and maximal. The carved edges of this woman are not rounded and bulging lines. They are tight, sinewy, minimal.
She moves like a Blue Period Picasso. Subtle and laconic, but full of autumn languid avarice, malice. Her breathing is a steady harmonic thing. She breaths like leaves fall. To hear her scream would be to witness some minor apocalypse. Her minor key body never heaves against me in an over powering display of desire or need. She is an introvert. The energy of the room, the energy of me, is channeled down through my hands into her lithe body.
She and I have never met, not here. Not in this bed. I woke up to thunder in the night. I am alone, with a paper analyzing the kinetics and dynamics of Unaweep Canyon half done up on my computer. My computer speakers tell me the vagaries of being a Crawlin’ Kingsnake. The ceiling I stare at, my old friend, flashes blue and green with the pulsing of a wireless router on my desk.
I haven’t been sleeping alone. Laying there, compact, the sort of minimal that made the 1970 Mercury Cougar a legend, is the one sharing my sleep. Muscular and toned into a straight American flawless beautiful destruction machine. Maybe sharing my dream. An electric wet black that sucks away the reason and intellectual accountability of my mind, she reflects the lightning outside like a mirror in the sweaty and close September air.
Such is life sharing your bed with a Jaguar.
