Betsy Sallee



Please: stop staring at me in my darkspot. It is a thing that cannot be helped, the way the river runs out to the sea. Every body has its own agenda, for example, breakthrough bleeding, and mine is grown against the grain. And then there's the itch, the chemistry of it. Hard, harder. Make me feel as though I've been struck like a match. Yes. Now. I am an innovator of pleasure, dancing fast, faster in my white dress. Don't you see that there are angels among us? They are dancers, they have no names, and the heat is getting hungry but I will not get out of the tub. I refuse to be a supplicant, to bend, invertebrate, even to the holiest of men. Wrists tied like a tourniquet, blood red in the blackest black. Shimmy shimmy, doo-wop, slide, and so on and so forth. Keep your hands off me, don't you see? I'm moving to the beat. Not to mention sterilization is meant for minute clinics so goddammit if I'll let you touch me in those rubber gloves.