Electra unfurls the roll of condensed light, tears through the plastic blisters to reveal the day's present, unwraps her drugs, her shadows, her one true gift. What day of the week is normal? Emotions fall like jewels onto her lap. She folds each tear in a wrap of rain, wraps the stamping feet, the ones that don't bring anger in. She is in the rat house, breathing tarnish into the silverware. The fact that she has neither house nor car in Sodsville is of no consequence now.
Come to me boatman, she says under her breath, whisper to me, tell me, when was the last time you made love on the circle line?
I should wrap you in repulsion you old fraudster, break all your bones, leave your sense of sentiment handstitched to the place where your heart should be, embroidered with your own perfect name. Il faut cultiver le jardin. Let the trellis of obscene roses buckle beneath its own weight. May all your mushrooms rot in hell.
Electra peers through the roll of bubblewrap, distorting her down and out world. She halves her wishbone with a shy snap
Ah precious! she says Come closer, let me confess. None of this sheer bliss has happened yet. We are two people, one old, one young, just holding each other.