Fitch, Janet
Love. I would ban the word love from the vocabulary. Such imprecision. Love, which love, what love? Sentiment, fantasy, longing, lust? Obsession, devouring need? Perhaps the only love that is accurate without qualification is the love of a very young child. Afterward, she too becomes a person, and thus compromised. "Do you love me?" you asked in the dark of your narrow bed. "Do you love me Mommy?"
"Of course," I told you. "Now go to sleep."
Love is a bedtime story, a teddy bear, a familiar, one eye missing.
"Do you love me, carita?" Lydia says, twisting my arm, forcing my face into the rouch horsehair blanket, biting my neck. "Say it, you bitch."
Love is a toy, a token, a scented hankerchief.
"Tell me you love me," Barry said.
"I love you," I said. "I love you, I love you."
Love is a check, that can be forged, that can be cashed.
Love is a payment that comes due.
"Of course," I told you. "Now go to sleep."
Love is a bedtime story, a teddy bear, a familiar, one eye missing.
"Do you love me, carita?" Lydia says, twisting my arm, forcing my face into the rouch horsehair blanket, biting my neck. "Say it, you bitch."
Love is a toy, a token, a scented hankerchief.
"Tell me you love me," Barry said.
"I love you," I said. "I love you, I love you."
Love is a check, that can be forged, that can be cashed.
Love is a payment that comes due.