Belly of the Whale

Belly of the Whale

There was no escape; there had been no escape for weeks, months. She can understand him now, huddled like a moth attracted to the city lights, the lamps, the deep numb of night. How can you bear the world when you know you will always have to surrender? Knowing it will never work out-- it will be the way it is forever. We were born not knowing that we were stupid, but knowing we were not good enough.

Yet, there are times when she is freed: in a car, it is night, no one is out, stoplights feel comforting somehow, no need for time or impatience. The car slows down for the wind to seep in, moisten their skin, as if they were finally a part of something-- the night. Not needing to bear anything, pushing through gravity (it felt as if for once it was lifting). Going faster, and faster, until finally a home, some recognizable place, they would stop.

They would sit for an hour longer in the car, lying down, fingers reaching up through the sunroof, to the air dancing limitless. Talking and listening and then curled up against each other, knowing one of them would be leaving, feeling that reality, the break of morning on the edge of their lips.

She can feel him, the man in the street, a man unknown to her anymore, when she is in the deep creaking house, somewhere upstairs. Everyone has been sleeping for decades it seems like now. She is up, in the moonlight, it is loving her for all her inadequacies: her bitten nails,

her splotchy skin, and her static hair. She is made whole again; but the world still is scratching at the door: the sounds of cars, and ambulances, of life. She wants to numb like him, find escape, he does not remember anything (or does he) but he has a way to become a part, to be as singular and insignificant as a molecule. If only nothing had any meaning to her, maybe she too could be saved.