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Show THE BRUISE-3 The gutters stink and papers rattle in them because there must be a wind somewhere. I step across Mr. O'Leary's broom as he sweeps in front of his l i t t le store on the Avenue. He sweeps every afternoon, but still no one comes into his store. In the window is a plastic bust of JFK, two Irish flags, and some tins of imported cookes. We nod hello. I feel sad, as I always do, because no one comes to his store and I am somehow reponsible; I hurry past. I cannot stop thinking about the bruise. If I were an artists' model, they would spread me out artistically on my belly and paint wonderful things: gigantic velvety tongues of Iris, the pulsating crest of a Portugese man-of-war, exotic lichen, mountains. Or, what if I were accused, arrested? They would inspect my naked body and no one would believe me: "Hey, what's this, lady?" "Oh, that. It's nothing." "Hey, don't try to kid me. You're one of those masochist bitches going around asking for it and now look at what you've done, you dreadful woman." "Oh no. It happens only when I'm alone, I just fall sometimes, you know." "I know you're in deep trouble, Miss, lying like that, hiding it, pretending you're not that kind." "But I only had a few drinks, honest." " A lush, hey? We know your kind. What else have you done? What have you forgotten? Who have you killed?" It always does to face things, to see what is the worst that can happen, |
