I remember your curtains.
The way they would stay suspended above us, watching, as if to shake a finger at how you could make such a little girl squirm.
They had the nerve, with the way they would jump from the tickle of the fan. Giggling and spinning, sliding along the wall and brushing against the headboard.
Twisting and sliding and they could resemble such whores, letting the fan blow their skirts up in the air to reveal a naked window pane. You never did have blinds underneath them.
And the way they would smirk at my inability to keep quiet, the way they would whisper when you would cover my mouth.
The way they would slide along the wall and against my lips, and you said you liked it because it made me look like I was under water.
I'd trade life and limb to stay underneath those curtains. Underneath their stares and pointy fingers. Underneath the water.
Underneath you.

07/28/2006

Posted on 07/28/2006
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