SHEEN
You could take pornographic pictures of the most lurid kind. I could pose in my pajamas, with red and yellow vegetables balanced on the top of my head. You could contrast the sleep in my eyes with an ecological theme: environmentally conscious textiles made from plants grown in twisted rows behind our house. You could use my camera, the one my grandmother left behind in her linen closet when she moved to Kansas. I could print them on slick, glossy paper, the kind that licks the sweat from your fingertips, the kind that says “lewd,” without using fuck, or pussy. We could hang them above the sink in the bathroom, turn on the shower and let the steam paint the walls gray. In the middle of the night we could discuss the artistic meaning, cook spaghetti noodles and drape them over the foot of the bed. In the light of the moon I could call it obscure yet intelligible. We could talk about the force, and the impact. I could tell you that in Alabama “moved to Kansas” means dead. You could tell me that seulement means “alone” in French. And you could hold my hand in the pit of your mouth, while the radio plays a song neither one of us knows, or will care to remember tomorrow.