Overexposure by Erica Anzalone


by Erica Anzalone


“Hi. I’m Melody. Charmed, I assure you.” Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015.

“Hi. I’m Melody. Charmed, I assure you.” Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015.


here, where her face is blotted out by the sun, in this overexposure, we will make love for the first time. We will not call it making love or even refer to it at all, not as fucking, or doing it. Even though you texted me, I will do you hard, like a stampede of horses up the side of a building running into the sun, like a line of flower girls in white dresses that become a stampede of horses suspended for a moment over the sharp, red noise of traffic.
You will not mention your metamorphosis or mine, how our insides will become our outsides and when this happens, you will become a dragon on my back and I will become a white cow. You will not mention how you will bite my neck and blood will spurt out, each bead making a necklace of fantasies I will never say out loud.
There is a rape fantasy turning an emerald green slither by your feet, and over here by my hand with your hand pressing it against the wall, the colors keep changing. I want to fuck everything alive and dead and inanimate. A fuck rainbow made of furniture and banisters and doorknobs. Dinner plates with roses on them shoot past our heads and wedge into the wall. They are too high for me to fuck so I make a footstool of you.
An automated tongue shoots from the glossy surface of your mouth. I look down at your chiseled, conventionally handsome face before I sit on it. The automated tongue licks and probes my cunt to the thump of techno moans remixed with clown laughter. You keep smiling as it shoots out of your mouth into me and back into your mouth again. I will not mention it except when you are mentioning it,
make love to me in a hall of mirrors, not the carnival kind but the ones at Versailles. I will make it by stepping on your face in stilettoes. You will make it by sucking the gritty heel in your mouth. I will make sure I do not gore your eye out as I reach up to lick the plate. It tastes like the gore of your eye on my heel which tastes like your torn and bloody lip. You are begging for more with an angry silence and an empty envelope in my phone.
So I make more of you, a line of footstools like lily pads leading to an infinite orgasm. White heat strikes my body as I melt into the red walls of the love we made, fleshy and pulsating with the memories of all the other love that was ever made. The love turns into yellow fat that a talk show host dumps from a bucket onto a table where it jiggles and drips off the edge.
Damn girl! I almost came while I was driving, you text. A picture of my ass had just popped up in your phone. The picture sits in the cup holder of your BMW to the left of the steering wheel. The sun glints off round white cheeks and a black cavern you so badly want to slip into, and then I will do you harder.
You take one hand off the wheel to stroke yourself through your pants, your cock straining hard against the seam, spitting up wetness that makes the dark fabric darker as it grows like an ink blot between your legs. You drive past a crash where you can’t see the mangled bodies, only the flash of the ambulance. You will not say this except when I am in bed and you are saying it, I love you,
in a different city in a different bed with a different woman, with a love not made yet, not really,
we are making it from flower girls in white dresses walking down a staircase into a basement full of dead horses where you are developing photographs of the steering wheel of a yacht and a glass pyramid in front of the Louvre,
and copy after copy of my cunt hovering above your chiseled, conventionally handsome face made freakish with bright, exaggerated expression looking up at me from a footstool,
the two front legs in black pants and the two claws in back scratching at the linoleum, with the effort of pushing hard, of humping the air where you imagine I am, no longer a cow but a naked woman ballooning into the sky. My raw asshole inhales you like marijuana and puffs out a banner that announces we are making love and supplies will be limited to
all the time, 24/7, love will seep from the radio in department stores like puss from the putrefied wombs of women who died in childbirth simply because a man did not wash his hands, simply because a man pricked his finger on a corpse and died of the same fever and no one wanted to say it, so women kept on dying, and making
love that is everywhere and yet you can’t afford it. Or I can’t afford it. You can afford it which is part of my fantasy of you in a suit driving a BMW down the highway into the mountains. I can’t afford to say I’m poor so I wear a high couture I’ve acquired through a rhinestone diploma out on loan, like a pair of skinny jeans my other lover and I
don’t look good in but wear anyway because we’re in Brooklyn. I would never call him lover out loud or say make love to me because we are too ironic for that and precious too with our moustache magnets, we are an ageing youth culture that business men like you invented, like you invented skinny jeans,
jeans that have been worn by the world and lined inside with organic factory-raised nails, so comfortable we watch people being bombed and slaughtered every night on the news, yawn, and flip the channel to a T.V. show where people are being bombed and slaughtered,
we dry hump in our skinny jeans lined with nails until we’re bored, we’re bored with the pain of all the little holes the world has made in us, and tired from the blood we’ve lost, we make
love like a field of flowers that pops up behind you with every step. You hold a buttercup beneath my chin to see if it will X-ray my soul, a white baby bunny I hold in my mouth. My mouth is full of struggling fur and I want to spit it out. I’m gagging, your hands are so gentle on the back of my neck. You say just like that, baby girl,
just like that, we are making love as one darkness troubling the waters, just the tip of your tongue on my clit making me come so hard that we make love an entire world spinning at such a high speed that the punch-clock stops, this naked velocity is love,
but you won’t say it except with your body, happy come spurting from your hard cock like the blood spurts from my neck and from the necks of all the other women in the closet. UG
Erica-AnzaloneErica Anzalone holds a doctorate from UNLV (University of Nevada, Las Vegas) where she was awarded a Schaeffer Fellowship and an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her first book of poetry “Samsara” is the winner of the 2011 Noemi Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Denver Quarterly, The Literary Review, Hotel Amerika, The Colorado Review, Pangyrus, Summer Stock, The Offending Adam, and elsewhere.

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