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{the memory of skin} carla criscuolo All those awkward limbs and hairless chests run together, slick as the sweat that oiled our bodies, cool droplets pooling delicately in my concave stomach, the rhythmic sound of wet flesh slapping, the sound of urgency, the sound of desperation. I remember the drive to reach an agreed upon destination without asking directions. I remember getting lost, picking my way across bodies that all looked and smelled the same, like hops and Axe body wash, though I’m sure they seemed distinct at the time. Sense of smell fades, memories lose their texture, rubbed smooth after years of chafing. In another ten I may lose the memory of silk panties being pulled over my hips by calloused hands or the haunting timbre of a lover’s moan. Even now I barely recall the swollen lips and quivering thighs that grew out of those first hesitant touches; hand to knee mouth to throat, foot to groin; colors fading like a picture left in the sun too long; road signs on a twisted path overtaken by underbrush. |
