Skin Talk at Dawn
My skin weighs less at dawn, my bones mute their crackling, and with my hat pulled tight down only the intoxicated notice me on the subway, otherwise I pass and the addled won't remember what they saw anyway, much less believe it by evening-time;-- in my home-place, we call the blurring of your sight, my unattended passage, “the mechanics of slant-wise sliding, holding a mirror obverse forward,” as best I can render the concept in your speech, alas, you lack the illative, the adessive, the other cases I need, and even if you possessed those, the palates here are too small for the number of teeth I need;-- I could sigh, with a ponderously big rush of air, but no good would come therefrom (trust me, this I know from roaring experience), so I will click my jaws hard shut, enjoying the friction of enamel crossing enamel, will do no more than urge my thoughts onto the text-device, as the subway lurches back into Manhattan, from the hunting-grounds I roamed in the night;-- your kind so tender, unsuspecting, I could (as you put it) just eat you all up, if you understand my little joke I just made now, the irony you would I am quite certain understand, even missing some of the syntactical tools you need;-- I remember not to flex out my claws, even though Lord knows they itch fierce, bits of matter stuck in the pads and my tendons ache, sore from bruising combats, torn velvet, my lungs still clamor and burn, after sprintings and pursuits, oh why must you always run so, all frantic and arms a-waving?;-- your noise at those moments, nothing fleeting about it, more like the express, not the local (I have been here since before they built the subway, of course, but I try to stay dated, no, up-to-date rather, in my patterns of speech; we aim to be as fastidious, as precise, in speaking as we are in hunting – it's just that we so seldom get the chance to speak, so naturally we then pour forth in streams and rivers, yes like this, which might contradict the rule about neat and orderly transmission) (alas, and where was I, lost that train for sure), a rapidly building sound pitched high and metallic, and a slamping sort of echo at the end, like when the train chuffs into the station and the doors wheeze open, it is almost poetical, I sometimes pause to capture the miniature symphony as it unfolds, though never so long as to let the prey escape;-- alarming it must seem, as I picture it from your point of view, repeated most nights, all down the years (so many years, ah!), and me in a steady quiet lather, must always pursue silently, or at least with great stealth, keeping my mouth shut until the last, most opportune time for striking, which then I do with credible force, in which I take some pride, okay much pride if you insist and I must confess it, “aw shucks” I heard it said on old black-and-white TV shows, having done so since the vast battles way back before you were born (you being, to be precise as I claim, all of you and everywhere, even though I am responsible just for this one precinct, the wicked old Gotham in all its ever-fading, ever-new glories, and no minor matter in fact, with your multitudes singing electric);-- dozy my head becoming as we near Union Square, must remember to switch to the 6 downtown, really need a coffee first, nothing fancy, nothing over-poured or with all those adjectives, just regular very hot, dash of old-fashioned milk, but happily no need for a bagel since I am very full now, midnight snacks is your phrase not mine, plus that saves money, am saving for Wicked tickets on Broadway, though I might could be tempted by the new Malaysian place near Seward Park for lunch, such fare being a terrestrial invention, an advance on the kitchens above; –forgive me, my thoughts stray yet again, little wanderings, not like the careful triangulations and expeditions of my night-time pursuits, I think my forebrain and my backbrain slip away from one the other in the dawn light, together they forget the point of my lessons, my admonitions, the monstering of it all; so (“ahem,” as your comic strip talk-balloons say), returning now to the serious matter confronting us, you and me on the same team: with the most solicitous respects I say to you all (please, please listen) that you are isolates, minutes and atoms, you stroll heedless where you ought not, no warnings from me suffice no matter the efforts I take so many pains with, I believe I could light my tails a-flame and swoop like a comet or an annunciatory star from the Empire State Building, yet still most of you would ignore me, your consciousnesses sprawled over your screens, ears clogged with buds and phones, chattering with each other but so rarely with me, alas, so on and on you stumble into the lightless spaces you were forewarned against, where I must needs search and find you, and then you misunderstand my motives, you fail to really see me, instead you jump like hares and run eyes round-open, tongues so red in mouths so open, all vainly I must sigh (small nudge of air, no one would notice, not even the inebriates), just a whiff of the sulfur, I get so frustrated;-- wishing as ever for conversation, a charla over dominoes, maybe at the hair salon, some kvetching with you over fries at the diner, wherever, whatevs (hah, I heard that on TikTok the other day, amazing what I learn there, even the useful dance-step or two, though my feet retract, is that it?, in ways your dancers would find disturbing, even as they envied my mobility), I would show up if you invited me, but alas you never do, only the crazed and demented among you, or now and again, not often thank the Virtues and the Graces but often enough, some cunning soul pops up with a heart of thorns and graspy glances, a brain full of plans and plots and portents, who thinks I can be controlled for ends not my own, and oh-my-gosh that never ever finishes in a happy corner, but those sorts I dismiss from my memory, choosing to spend more time reaching out to the rest of you, though I realize I do how difficult it is: how would you approach me, if you knew my tasks and duties? Maybe I need better “PR” (a word I learned only recently) or a “marketing guru,” which sounds exciting, I read about this profession in the Wall Street Journal;-- my boss tells me I complain too much, “quit your belly-aching” (I imagine him putting it the way you do, so colorful, so fleshy-- of course, his actual phrase is more formal, our native tongue being so much more austere, not given to corporealities, treating hunger as an abstract even in this dimension), so to the good news: my tally last night was good, more to report, closer to the annual quota, maybe a promotion, maybe Lord knows a holiday trip back to the home-place, all expenses paid, with all the perks (the air-miles equivalent astronomical!), oh and unlimited buffet dining with food that does not try to escape, ah the home-place, so far from here even though it is pictured so often in your books (tender feelings about it I will share with you, even when the furnishings you imagine are so far off the mark), I mean, I love your place, so round and full, so messy, full of smells and sparks, more than you seem to realize or appreciate, if we could chat like on one of your television shows, I could show you that love, a big demonstration, would top the ratings, maybe win an Emmy, you know? (I practice my acceptance speech in my bathroom mirror). Still, even a fan like me, a long-time resident and full of affection, even I need the occasional vacation. I have not seen my mother since, well I cannot remember, but I think it was before you had learned to work copper. So please do not begrudge me a tiny slice of homesickness, the smallest icing on the cherry, to go with my coffee, I hope?; – hopes and apologies I strew, along with head-shakings and warm gestures, for you my beloved small kindred, made in similar image (no matter how strange we may appear on surface to our respective eyes, we can recognize the spirit within, if only with a little nudging now and then, and of course we like the same kinds of music, which in my book clinches the confirmation of our propinquity) whom I have watched and guarded for so many many years (“eons” only barely begins to scope the passage of all that time, a burden even for one such as me); – rely on me to hunt those who hunt you, in the gloom-corners and dim conduits, to stop those who would lure you into the pull of centripetal pits, along the murky edges of your reality, please forgive my appearance when I am forced to put aside the obverse of the mirror, I was made to be a shield with rims of razor, midnight's jagged spear of phosphor, radial sun-fire dagger, to protect you; – hoo boy, and oh golly, so tired now, want a soft shower for my abraded skin, the reporting can wait, but not the spare change I must give the inebriate who is eyeing me with fearful wonder.
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Daniel A. Rabuzzi (he / his) has had two novels, five short stories, 35 poems, and nearly 50 essays / articles published (www.danielarabuzzi.com). Pushcart nominee. He lives in New York City with his artistic partner & spouse, the woodcarver Deborah A. Mills (www.deborahmillswoodcarving.com).