B67
Public Record
Excerpt from novel: with Abandon

half asleep

on a beach
wondering whether She is
at the louvre or the seinne
or if She is smothered in the soft skin
of a better lover,
as i believe She wants to be.

fair arms—pits unshaved, probably—
draped around Her neck
(loving scarf)
and the tide is going out
everything going quiet now
but the dog, whining, watching another dog
chase a tennis ball,
bouncing little gazelle across the sand,
chocolate lab or something else as brown and unconditional,
She is probably coming again and again
with an arched back
like i’ve never seen Her do;
the french girl, maybe,
with baguette crumbs beneath her cuticles,
finds a perfect, practiced rhythm,
her tongue and two fingers
a sewing machine in slow motion
while my record ends
but i leave the earphones in
so that nobody else asks to pet the dog
and how old is he
two years old
and what kind is he
purebred mutt
and what’s his name
what’s yours
and the eiffel is sparkling for bastille through the fourth story window
and She is exhausted from coming without trying
for the first time in Her life,
and She finally feels fulfilled
and my left lung is splintering just thinking about it
—is he a rhodesian ridgeback?
—he’s a purebred mutt
—well i have one that looks just like him. he’s a ridgeback.
—oh?
—yeah. she’ll be a year old in november.
—that’s great.
—how old is this guy?
—two years.
—so he’s full grown?
—yeah i think so.
—he’s not a ridgeback, then.
—oh.
—they’re much bigger.
—oh.
really though She’s probably having a quiet dinner,
watching those tireless french beauties walk past,
turning my mother’s wedding ring regretfully
around and around Her perfect finger.

Frida Bilson