Patricia Fuentes
Venom
Mornings Already I hear him down there making me food. Clank clink of copper pots. Already he's plunging his thick fingers into chickens and squashes, ripping out their insides. I smell the heat already, the vinegar, the heavy foreign oil he likes to use. Through it all, I can smell myself.
Baby Foods Of course I said the right thing at first. Leave me, go. But who would? We'll get you well, Carl said. He doesn't say it anymore, but still he believes, brings me offerings, like little sacrifices. Shiny baby rabbits positioned for a race, dwarf hens forced into grace on thin porcelain platters. Stunted vegetables in bright colors, which he drenches in butter, in oils and tender herbs that sting my nostrils. Little pink commas of shrimp, the sloppy geometry of tripes. It's all here for you baby. Eat up.
Eating After you eat it all, I'll wash you, he says. A steamy rag scrubbing my body's what I want. I can smell myself. Wash me now, I'll enjoy the food more. But already he's propped me up, smiling, showing me the tray. Three little calf livers, like poisonous sponges, tiny sprigs of parsley on top. Transparent strands of onion. I think I catch my reflection in the liver. Then, the scrape of knife and fork against the squeaky clean plate. Do you like it, baby, my beautiful, how is it. My moan is drowned and he is happy now.
Tree We would look at it together, at night, from our bed, which is now only mine. What do you see baby, he'd ask. I saw small animals, Japanese paper fans, flamenco dresses, and feathers. In the branches' shadows, we saw worlds. Sometimes, we saw the same things, and other times, we didn't, but Do you see it? Do you? And then he would. Under the plump comforter, on his back I outlined those shapes with my fingers, and he guessed right every time. I traced small, simple words on his skin. Love, kiss, and tree. These too he knew well.
Washing He has taken to shaving my legs. One leg goes up; he props the foot on his shoulder. Lathers up the cream, spreads it on my body like dense snow. Scrapes, dips the razor into water, scrapes. Streamlets of blood run down both sides, over my calf. You are so dry, he says, and smooths the palms of his hands over my other hairy leg. It makes a sound when he does this. He cleans up after himself and after me, everything neat and shiny on the coffee table beside my bed. Cotton, oils, lotion, perfume, soap, scissors, the basin filled with water. He clips my toenails. Want me to paint them today? Sure, I say. Pick the dark red darling. The one called Parisian Velour. I have waxy lipstick to match.
Hard Look what I bought. Black lace. He dresses me up. We can have fun, he says. He strips, letting his clothes fall to the floor like stones, fast and hard. Pushes me over, comes next to me, is flat on top. Am I crushing you? He has the hardest slickest body, the cleanest. Baby baby, he pulls my arm and places it behind his back, where I can't see it. Then, he sees what this really is. That he had to yank the frail lace over my body, that it took him twenty minutes to get it all on. That he is naked, clean and glossy by my side. I will bring us food, he says.
Fruits He brings up a platter of fruit. I spent an hour at the market picking out perfect ones, he says. One of each. A pomelo, a grenadine, a coconut, a papaya, a melon. Then, one cherry, one grape. He lifts his eyebrows. Which first? We'll share. The hairy coconut is fine to me. He brings a hammer and screwdriver. Shoves a hole in the shell, pours the milk into a bowl. It's all oil, I say, I don't want it. It tastes so good, baby. And he pushes the bowl to my lips until I drink it all, little whiskers and bits of shell too. We eat the entire coconut, the two of us. It takes forever, an hour. Because right when you think you've chewed enough to swallow no problem, it's not chewed finely enough and you're gagging.
Sweets I scared him one night years ago, as he stood naked on out murky tiles, by that red sink. He stood with open jars of raspberry jam, seedless, and honey, mixing them both in a bowl then dripping the goo into his soft mouth. Barefoot, I waited to be seen. He turned, irregular, slow, and grazed the sticky spoon on my arm. Baby. We laughed later, as he cleaned the sweetness off my skin, who thought spoons could scratch? But in bed, he woke me to say, Shit baby, you scared me. One day, I'm gonna scare you so bad. So who's scared now?
Kissing Do you know that kissing originated with feeding? he says. Mothers and fathers had to chew up babies' food and drop it in their mouths, push it in with their tongues. No, I didn't know. Really how sick. But he's pulling up his sweater, whipping it off. Takes my band into his, presses my limpness against his solid chest, gives me a look like baby? We can now, if you want, I offer. I don't mind, I say. But he looks at the shapes of legs under my two cotton blankets, one pink, one white. It's fine, baby. Then be kisses my face, wiggles a pointed tongue in my car. Murmurs his words, traces little circles on my skin with the pads of his fingers, loses himself in my hair, rubs it on his face, moves himself against the edge of the bed, heaving, breathing, whispering his filth into my mouth.
Sores Carl found a sore on my back. God damn it I thought I rubbed you well. So now, every day, twice, he comes in with oils and eucalyptus leaves which he mashes with a mortar and spreads oil the other side of my body. The oil will make your blood flow stronger, keep the circulation good. He rubs some between my fingers.. Your nails are so soft, round, so clean, he admires. How could they get dirty? I want to ask. How could they when I can't even scratch my own skin? And they are soft, almost one with my flesh. But the eucalyptus makes me queasy; I can hardly breathe sometimes. Open the window, I ask, open it to let air in. He does it, but then stays in case hugs come to bite me. once, a bee flies in. Don't move, lie says. Easy, I say.
Kissing Beans are so good for you, Carl tells me. He brings in a white bowl filled with beans soaking for a fifteen‑bean soup. He places my fingers in the bowl, swishes them around, points out the assorted shapes, shows me the colors: the black, the pink, the brown, the green. Like tight little flowers, like beads for a
neck. He takes my fingers out and they hang, limp kipper with drops of water on the ends. He takes them in his fist and squeezes hard, so the tips are red and I still can't feel them. You are so beautiful, baby. He places the bowl on my stomach, takes my other hand and dips it in too, then puts it to my lips this cold water
tastes like the earth outside.
Culture He puts the pastry to my face again too soon, too soon. See, I got the recipe from the neighbor, he says. A Tunisian sweet. Mostly honey and almonds and pistachios. All natural. The stickiness is in my teeth, between my lips and gums, but this is something he does not fix for me, so I use my tongue. What's
wrong, why are you making those faces? he worries. Tunisia, that's somewhere I'd like to go, I say. Lots of ruins, history, Moorish palaces. And beaches, he adds. Oh yes, beaches..
Kissing Soon, you will begin using the chair, he says. Then, we will move to a different house. He rubs a sponge between my thighs again then squeezes the blood out in the basin, making the water pink. There you'll be able to go outside. He pats me dry, cleans up the mess on the coffee table. Leaves and I look at the
chair in the corner, rolled chrome and matte leather like a sleek nightmare. He comes back with chocolate eclairs. Eats three, feeds me two. I have cream on my face, I can feel it, can you get it off, I ask. I don't see it. It's above my lip, get it off. He leans over my face, stares at my lips, his hair touching my eyes. There's
nothing there, except your lips baby. He kisses my mouth, sweet he says. But I can still feel the cream.
Writing I remember you had a book you wrote in, one with flowers on it. Yellow and blue, no? So I got you a tape recorder. Here, I'll leave it on so you can talk your private thoughts. He does leave. After a while, I imagine I can feel the machine's hum vibrate through the room, through my body. Finally, it clicks to a
stop. At night, he feeds me seafood and white wine. A butter lettuce and radicchio salad with cranberry vinegar. Baby, the tape was blank, why? he says. And I thought it was private.
Kissing Knight to Queen 4. Bishop to King 7. 1 win, and he Puts the game on the floor, smooths the blankets out. That was fun. I liked that. What game now? No game, I'm very tired, I tell him. He pushes the blankets to the foot of the bed. I'll massage your feet; they look blue. Carl, can you open the window so I can breathe?
Kissing For your birthday, I'll make you your favorite cake. Say anything you want. So I pick Black Forest, a cake my mother made for all celebrations. On the day, he brings it to me, a cake bigger than my face, the chocolate shavings like a secret, the cream like cream. Champagne too, sip and eat, sip and eat. Four pieces all together, I eat. It's your birthday, he says. Then he cleans up, brushes bits off my blankets‑one white, one pink‑and my chin. Baby you have some cake on your face, he points to my cheek, licks it, looks at me eagerly. Can you open the window, Carl, so I can breathe? He does it, then perches himself on the bed, prodding, wearing away my front, tracing squiggly lines in the blankets over me. I turn my head away, towards that tree outside. Damn it damn it baby why can't you pretend? he shakes. Can't you even pretend No. But if I look out the window and breathe, I will.