Armpit
The papery outer covering on a tulip bulb is properly called a tunic. There apparently is no common name, in this country, for the envelope of skin on the ears of certain cats, the small labial flap near the base of the flare. In a comparative anatomy book, it's referred to as " a duplicature of the external margin of the pavilion, " the pavilion being the ear itself, its open, tent-like structure. In Britain they call it " Henry's pocket. " The French have a beautiful word — oreillon — a variation of their word for ear, oreille — meaning little ear, or earette. To me, it seems like a gill.
When I was a child, the word yellow provided me with a kind of private comfort that nothing and no one else could offer. It felt like the good smell of sweat, like a cuddle, or a hand steadying my shoulder.
In an attempt to describe a birch tree assaulted by winter light — late afternoon light, upstate, filtered by low clouds and amplified by a foot of new snow — I resorted to using the word flank, which seemed to convey the muscular stance of the tree, its posture, the way it seemed en-souled. I knew, technically, that trees have no flanks.
Now I'm obsessed with the word armpit. It makes me laugh, but also seems to carry with it an erotic charge, a mild thrill, like the word panties, or nipple. There's a little humidity in each word, a conductive power, as though the word itself completes a circuit between the abstract territory of the mind and the concrete realm of the body. All three words make my tongue hurt, make me want to lick something, or speak a secret directly into the shadows of an ear.
I cannot look at crows' wings without thinking of black olives.
I love things that shine, and am on the verge of sinning (the verb surprises me, too) because a woman's teeth (a woman who is in love with someone else, as I am, or am supposed to be; that is, in love with someone who is not the woman whose teeth I speak of) — her teeth remind me of wet white skirts, or certain kinds of flower petals — think of peonies, or tulips — or think of the kind of formal shirts portrayed in Vermeer, the way a muted white unfurls from the sleeves, the way it pools in corners, shimmers in little blotches on the map tacked to the wall...
I'm saying her teeth make my tongue hurt, too.
When I was a child, the word yellow provided me with a kind of private comfort that nothing and no one else could offer. It felt like the good smell of sweat, like a cuddle, or a hand steadying my shoulder.
In an attempt to describe a birch tree assaulted by winter light — late afternoon light, upstate, filtered by low clouds and amplified by a foot of new snow — I resorted to using the word flank, which seemed to convey the muscular stance of the tree, its posture, the way it seemed en-souled. I knew, technically, that trees have no flanks.
Now I'm obsessed with the word armpit. It makes me laugh, but also seems to carry with it an erotic charge, a mild thrill, like the word panties, or nipple. There's a little humidity in each word, a conductive power, as though the word itself completes a circuit between the abstract territory of the mind and the concrete realm of the body. All three words make my tongue hurt, make me want to lick something, or speak a secret directly into the shadows of an ear.
I cannot look at crows' wings without thinking of black olives.
I love things that shine, and am on the verge of sinning (the verb surprises me, too) because a woman's teeth (a woman who is in love with someone else, as I am, or am supposed to be; that is, in love with someone who is not the woman whose teeth I speak of) — her teeth remind me of wet white skirts, or certain kinds of flower petals — think of peonies, or tulips — or think of the kind of formal shirts portrayed in Vermeer, the way a muted white unfurls from the sleeves, the way it pools in corners, shimmers in little blotches on the map tacked to the wall...
I'm saying her teeth make my tongue hurt, too.
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