THE BOATMAN

The twigs and leaves break off her body and drift onto the grass, copper stains which leave her bleakness whiter yet. Her hands are folded in her pain.

She isn’t cold. Her body's warmed by the burning in her bones even while her life is shivering. The flatland sucked the water from her eyes, and while syringes pulled the demons from her soul they always left the pain which brought them back. But here the pain can blow about, be gathered, buried, sunk.

The boatman is a simple man, his glances glow from deep within the blackness of his face. He's young, a lithesome being. When first he raked, she wrung her hands and later watched with frightened eyes the bow which plowed the silver darkness of her hours.

"You O.K. M’am?" he asked one evening. He knew. She nodded, her eyes pale blue, a dusk-like shimmer, her fingers crushing nothing  between the pale white tips. He left. She waited on the edge of the smooth black garden, the moon, a night bird, floating past her feet.

He came back late. He always came back late, alone. The boat house light went on. Its yellow breath picked out the flutter of the empty boat upon the water, briefly, then the night returned, a whispering, distant sound.

She rose and gripped the bench. For a moment she neither moved nor breathed, waiting for the darkness to hide the white-hot pangs. But then her footsteps on the wooden deck were lighter than a cloud's across the lake...the door swung open, she lingered, then she flowed into the depths within.

It is black, it smells of rope, a hairy touch, abrasive, …the softness of his face, the blanket smells of sweat he's warm and smooth and black with all the world. Her limbs are taut and thin, her palms are dank with fear, but his fingers calm her temples, cool her eyelids, and smooth the angles of the bones which stretch her skin. Her eyes are closed, a darkness in the darkness as he plucks and lifts the leaves, lets them drift and float and waits for them to sink into the lake. And then...and then...she lets the whiteness of his life pour deep into her night, her single cry a flicker as she wraps herself around his fire till their stillness damps the heat, the coolness of his face against her neck a shadow as the pain goes limp and laps, at last, a dying beat against this stranger's heart.

He strokes her skin, he smoothes the moisture in her hair and wraps her limpness in her dress before he lifts her, a leaf between his palms.

Alone again, the boatman gently pulls the oars and listens as the water parts then closes dark behind him, high above her liquid world.