Paradoxical undressing
Five years later, I call him. We talk about the incident—
the case that was thrown out. I’m doing well, thank you.
& then it’s over. The first thing I think about is fucking him
consensually. My heart a frog in a pressure cooker. Or an insect
squashed on the gusset of my panties. Then I think about Dyatlov Pass.
Bigfoot. Soviet agents. Really, it was the trekkers who fucked
themselves over. They were too vigilant. Piled in their tent
a growling snow slab distracted them from the warmth of the others’
bodies. They sliced the tent open from the inside, thinking avalanche,
thinking run. & they did—in nine different directions. All alone
they were so cold they were hot. All alone, they were so cold they began
to undress. One girl was found under snowfall missing her tongue
& eyes. She was trying to dig up a shelter—she thought
she’d keep herself warm in what was killing her.
They walk into their own gender-reveal party
because when they read the invitation, they mistook reveal
for reverie. They were correct in their own way. The only other guest
is Diana, Princess of Wales, first wife of Charles, Prince of Wales.
She tells them how cold she was in the Palace. The Crown wouldn’t pay
for heat. She tells them how the servants ducked their heads
when she came by, turned towards the nearest wall. Then she tells them
the night she died, thank god, she was in the throes of good, true love.
There’s a photo-op & she leaves the party & then they leave the party
& they step through the entryway & the party doesn’t exist anymore.
They are alone with themselves. They unyoke themselves from the world.
Wander from drafty house to drafty house. Seek small pleasures—
the attention of a wild dog, nut-spreads on toast. Anything—