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She lies on the bed, nude, her limbs a grid of narrow pipes. You're beautiful, I tell her. She grins. She is like a fish on a plate after the banquet's over. Minimalist art. Each word Lydia speaks is a stone lifted from the pit of her stomach. I never criticize her weight. How her pelvis is as small as a woman's bicycle saddle. Or how I worry for her when walking the sidewalk in a high wind. She looks brittle. If I slipped my hand around her windpipe it would crumble into a handful of dust. |
| Robert Bradshaw: bobbybradshw@yahoo.com |
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