For years nobody noticed The Unraveling. Nobody noticed— until the seams split and a naked marriage spilled out like a wet dream on a clean sheet. shocking the sacred. Perplexing the prudes. Shaken and stunned and clucking their tongues they blamed Artistic Temperament. Mental Fragility. An Illicit Affair. Menopause. The lapsed Catholics those ignorant pathetic savages moth holed in their white trash threads said novenas swearing by Priests. Mystics. Therapists. But the fraying fabric was already shot with holes and tears— unfit for charitable contribution long before the final ripping which commenced with cold dispassion and the sickening finality of a hardened woman mindlessly yanking still-warm feathers from the dappled carcass of some once-elegant creature or a naïve child innocently treading an angry nest of red-winged insects designed to sting all the soft vulnerable places with a single-minded ferocity. My arms, struggle to cover the pale, vile scandal of flesh beneath ratty cloth that clings to one shoulder with the tattered grace of a second hand shirt half slipped from a bent coat hanger its tail end dragging the dust-mitten floor. My hands, each strangely and suddenly dwarfed and ill-fitting, barely cup one heavy breast or hide the angry tangle of pubic hair itching over the stretched triangle of canvass like Eve in her wet fig leaf like Eve, who, forever saddled with the sin of feeding Adam -somehow managed.
© 2011 susan beck
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