Sampurna Chattarji: She thought/she said

“Do you want to be a dog or a guitar?” she said.
And she thought of the cradled arm, the embrace of wood and hollow, the curves that fit, snug, from a long intimacy.
She thought of the knees, bony below the faded jeans, she thought of the clutch at the crotch, the seeming endlessness of dark.
She thought of the thigh, and the nails, and the hair.
She thought of the strings of heart and catgut, of nylon preservative, she thought of the shudder of sound through skin.
Re verb, she thought, a doing word.
To hold, to be held.
“A dog,” she said, “can only be adoration, a red tongue, brown eyes at my feet.”
She thought of saliva.
She swallowed.
She thought of all the words:
Strum and fret and pluck.
Twang, she thought.
“Yes,” she said. “I want.”

Sampurna Chattarji

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