Such a trouble, Desire. Hers, freighted with disconsolate wish and
waft of firsts, frog, dark puddings, Endust, years ago clover, wet
clutch of the church nursery, and the fat scallops of wool carpets
dragging their burn behind her elbows, mother cool and orthodox as
dining room wainscoting. Then His, bike oil stripes, garage metals and
must, gold seams of strap sweat, brother's strange creaminess, and
the shining vinyl of the sisters' stack of 45s warming under needle
drag, gauze of their leaked eggs, father's hard blue, and
mother's need clapped like bare legs around them all.
Finally this Child in the viscous light of summer seed drift, hot boy
breath closing in on the tiny worm arcing green in the palm of the girl
who found it. He watching her watch the arc and inch, arc and inch. So
he'll want tomorrow to try with his own spine and upending, to know
not only the worm, but the hand of the girl and what it was like to be
in it ever and enter, to mash, wear and eat, to inhabit, unravel,
inhibit and so delicately, very greenly and fragrantly unlimit.