Sponges by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois


Sponges by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Examine this cross-section of a woman, as seen by computerized tomography or magnetic resonance imaging. She disrobes. Though her image is blurred, her nipples are as sharp as a gramophone’s needle and, when she rubs them against you, antique music fills the room and you find that you cannot talk, even breathe. You feel terrified, a middle of the night apnea moment, but somehow the cells of your body soften and air sweeps into your lungs. The music spills out of you as if you’ve become incontinent all over your body and the waste water is classical music.

The blurred cross-section of a woman disrobes, sheds her filmy shift. It floats to the floor like a feather. She lifts her foot to enter the tub. Her pubic hair is black and luxuriant. In the tub she finds two poems that someone has left for her to find. She wrings them out as if they are sponges. Images run down the drain before they register in her mind. She realizes that she has acted carelessly, stupidly. They are gone forever. Maybe they could have saved her. Maybe they were the one formula that could have saved her.

**** THE END ****
Copyright Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois 2015

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