Cartesian Sonata: And Other Novellas - Plot & Excerpts
They were poets. But Miss Bishop probably knew a man or two, had him inner, while Miss Moore drew another pair of bloomers on. Hardly a match. Miss Bishop smoked, drank, wheezed, stood in the surf, barefooted about, fished. Miss Moore hunted for odd words. Exercised her fancy at the track. My father would stare at my bony body. Shake his head sadly. Nothing there to raise a dick. I’d be bare. Stand there. Bedsided. Scared. Oh yes mortified. Ashamed. All my blood in two lines below my eyes. Streaked with rose like twilit clouds. I’d stand. Before the great glass. It would be to see as he saw the then smooth skin, rose lit, cheek to lay a cheek against, smooth to smooth I suppose, or wipe a weeping eye. They were women. They were poets. But Miss Bishop lusted after love. Miss Moore cooled like a pie on a sill. Hardly a match. Not my wish to be Elizabeth Bishop. Not for me, either, to be Miss Moore. Yet alike as a pod houses its peas. Unfit for fooling around. Like those Emmas before me, I read of love in the light of a half-life, and the shadow of its absent half gives depth to the page.
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