refrains

We were in a wooden room. A victrola at its center. My mouth is full of memories; old coins. I can't speak. Bitter blend bad taste both sharp and bland. Dirty copper and silver thick with the grit of stranger's hands. A nickel's shape and temperature defies my tongue's soft warmth. It will always be round and cold and soulless. Put your money where your mouth is? Worthless advice ... You don't know where they've been, don't put them in your ...

Slots in life one can't get past without a quarter or two. You never know. In grade school sometimes I'd keep my lunch money safe this way. The bully's couldn't steal it. Jaw muscles are incredibly strong and when they tighten around their hinges, nothing save desire will make them slack. I am silent. I am still a child. I can taste this fact.

We choose a vinyl disk. Black and shiney and music all over it. I'm old enough to remember records, though the memories are borrowed. We crank the handle together; his hand over mine, firm, firmer. Crushing. And the music rises; steam pushing up around the rim of a man hole cover, though usually they hold their breath when he and I walk by.

And the music rises from a brick belly somewhere far from here. A throaty song that becomes a love song simply because we listen to it. Even from the first note. It bursts inside itself. My gut response; an empty stomach in recoil against the shock of almost overripe fruit.

And the music rises. Sing sweet. Sing hard to bend the walls back like water fired into wilted plastic water bottles. Something regains its original shape in me.

These are the rules: There is no rewind. No playback or pause. You just have to keep cranking. Listen well for you may not hear this song again. As it hits the air it destroys itself. These old records; they scratch so easily. Don't lift the needle. Too risky. But. Sometimes the risk itself is in not risking. Pacing and reserve can be treacherous. We are winding up for the great unwinding and I turn the handle as fast I can. His handhold loosens, barely curved around mine. He's just along for the ride now, but I want. I want the music. Too much. I want it to never end.

I can feel. The room sighs. He has, in this moment, forgiven me for being a child when he met me. Forgiven me for imagining I might be loved by anyone else as he loved me. He forgives me for what I will do. For what I didn't say. For what I will dream. The taste of old coins fades off my tongue while his arms go round and around me. We are danced in his dancing. For both of us, he moves while I stand on his feet; balanced.

And that's been true, always. He moves me. He moved for both of us but my part was necessary. I had to be light. I had to be willing. The handle always runs down no matter how tightly wound. The music's gotta keep coming. It would have had to come from me.