Salomé

I scissor the stem of the red carnation and set it in a bowl of water. It floats the way your head would, if I cut it off. But what if I tore you apart for those afternoons when I was fifteen and so like a bird of paradise slaughtered for its feathers. Even my name suggested wings, wicker cages, flight. Come, sit on my lap, you said. I felt as if I had flown there; I was weightless. You were forty and married. That she was my mother never mattered. She was a door that opened onto me. The three of us blended into a kind of somnolence and musk, the musk of Sundays. Sweat and sweetness. That dried plum and licorice taste always back of my tongue and your tongue against my teeth, then touching mine. How many times?— I counted, but could never remember. And when I thought we’d go on forever, that nothing could stop us as we fell endlessly from consciousness, orders came: War in the north. Your sword, the gold epaulets, the uniform so brightly colored, so unlike war, I thought. And your horse; how you rode out the gate. No, how that horse danced beneath you toward the sound of cannon fire. I could hear it, so many leagues away. I could see you fall, your face scarlet, the horse dancing on without you. And at the same moment, Mother sighed and turned clumsily in the hammock, the Madeira in the thin-stemmed glass spilled into the grass, and I felt myself hardening to a brandy-colored wood, my skin, a thousand strings drawn so taut that when I walked to the house I could hear music tumbling like a waterfall of China silk behind me. I took your letter from my bodice. Salome, I heard your voice, little bird, fly. But I did not. I untied the lilac ribbon at my breasts and lay down on your bed. After a while, I heard Mother's footsteps, watched her walk to the window. I closed my eyes and when I opened them the shadow of a sword passed through my throat and Mother, dressed like a grenadier, bent and kissed me on the lips.