nder the bridge is a bunny. The bunny is pink with floppy ears. The bunny is standing in the water. I am floating in the water staring at the underside of the bridge trying to understand its intricate engineering. How is it the concrete (and steel) doesn’t collapse on me? The bunny is staring at me staring at the bridge. I know this because I can feel the green eyes of the bunny on me. I know the bunny has blinked when the pressure lets up and I can go on concentrating on the bridge’s underbelly. I float over to the side of the river, crawl out of the water, climb up the slope of the embankment and step onto the bridge. I begin walking across the concrete slab, observing the cables strung from beam to beam. When I reach the bridge’s center, I look down at the bunny. The bunny is looking at me.
she takes a quick breath of air into her six-year-old mouth, she says,
“You can be the mom, I’ll be the dad, and Xena can be the baby.” Bridget,
my niece, daughter of my brother Pete, Sweet Pete as I like to call him,
starts to arrange the knick-knacks in my parent’s living room in consultation
with four-year-old Xena, daughter of my twenty-one-year-old step-niece
Kiki who likes to watch TV, including soap operas, bad talk shows like
Jerry Springer and this one show that highlights the strength and endurance
of one warrior princess, a show that I find interesting, but not so interesting
that I’d want to name my kid after the main character who wears, what
I would call, a most impractical outfit for the job.
For me, the violin is the perfect alter ego.
It’s the instrument closest to the human voice,
the human female voice. It’s a siren.
I. Otherwise Known as Untitled Film Still #48
Before her, a dark, untitled highway stretches into a blind curve. She waits between the road and the grassy cliff. A suitcase stands quietly by, not clinging to, her legs. The thumb of her left hand touches the pawned crease between ring finger and palm. Her back is lit by approaching headlights. A pressed, white cotton shirt holds her nervousness in. Behind the headlights is a truck. Behind the steering wheel a man. On the man, polyester pants. In the pants, front pockets cut open with scissors. In and through one of the pockets is the man’s right hand. His eyes are on the hitchhiker.
II. Ceci n’est pas Le Viol
I stand in the middle of a stage. Yes, there is an audience. Attached to my crotch: a dildo, leather straps around my hips and thighs. A violin is horizontal in front of me; my hands hold its neck and ass. A white cloth tied in a knot over the strings, around the throat. The dildo is not on the strings like a bow, but under. The bridge unhinged. The strings are limp. Rosin in the air. I see nothing but white light.