May 6, 2009
The New Main, S.F.
by Paula Sheil
A man entered the space. Hair. Black. Soft. Moved down his
back. All of his back. Moved when he moved. Kelp with the
tide. Moved him or followed him. I. Like a tiny yellow fish
darted into his hair. And out. No solid between us. Space
only clarified my having him and letting go. Interrupted by
concrete and glass.
A man entered the space. Picture him naked on a white sheet.
His skin the color of walnut oil. His fingers. Hidden. I
wanted him. Suddenly. To never forget.
A man entered the space. Not so many men are beautiful. Not
so many. I personally have seen only four. Maybe five. A
beautiful man is painful to look upon. He is in every aspect.
A man. Has a head joined to shoulders. Arms joined to torso.
Hips riding legs that touch the ground. Thousands. No.
Millions of men pass me in the city streets. One only will move me
to tears. One will disgust me. One will make me pray.
Beautiful men make me still. I. Become, Eyes only. eyes
hiding in a crowded room. Hurts like loss.
A man entered my space. Part crane. Part myth. A man with
invisible wings. Who could rise. Perhaps I fear. The capture.
The ascension.
I now remember nothing except all of him. From where he
occupied space and set his form apart from all other
molecular constructs. Every human who walked into the fifth
floor study registered as not him. I cannot tell you more
than I know. His flesh would be cool. Just enough to keep me
from speaking.