Eros Aims Through the Ashes
Eros Aims Through the Ashes
I gaze down upon the twisted ruins of the once-great metropolis. I see the remnants of humanity wandering, dazed through the wreckage. The yellow dust hovering in the air is so thick I almost choke. The tall buildings stand cracked and fallen in the pale sunlight. I swoop down in my ultralight aircraft and descend, floating like a leaf downward into the city. As I settle down onto the broken asphalt I see a young woman digging in a trash heap and pulling out moldy bread and cans of food. I call out to her offering to share my meager rations with her. She screams in response.
I feel sorrow and crouch down next to her holding her hand and looking into her frightened eyes. Her muscles twitch likely due to vitamin B12 deficiency. No supplements are available and these days the scraps found in dumpsters don’t come enriched with nutrients. But I’ll share my meager supply with her. I hand her an energy pill from my pocket and she holds it in the palm of her hand looking at it.
I tell her “It’s alright. Take it.” I crush some
crystallized water in the plastic pouch and immediately it fills with water. After sticking a straw in it, I hand it to her. She swallows the energy pill and follows it with a sip of water. She smiles at me hesitantly and I know I have built some level of trust with her.
I feel an affinity with this ragged young woman. I lead her down the street and gaze into her kaleidoscope eyes. They reflect the haunted fear of abysmal nights spent in desolate alleys. I am determined to find her a place to rest tonight.
Her tattered dress hangs from her shoulders with torn holes exposing her tender skin. Her hair is disheveled and her voice is a whisper of desolation. We rest on the granite steps of the capitol building now fallen like the government which convened there in ages past. I leaf through a book that lays there. Then I take out a tube of aloe from my travel satchel. I spread the soothing cream on her starting with her face and working down to her arms and legs. The tears in her dress expose her nakedness. I work the cream along her tan lines. On the verge of tears she pleads, “Please.”
I pull a torn strip of fabric aside. However, she begs me with the refrain, “Please sir. I hurt very badly in my soul. I need love.” She turns onto her stomach and says, “Soothe my elysian poppy.” I am hesitant to resume my touch of her but her tears persuade me. She says “Talk to me.”
I say, “In the beginning there was yearning. Lust brought forth life. But the heart did what arousal couldn’t. It joined families in the bond of love.” My words subside leaving the language of touch. She is facedown and her lips blow the crematory ashes that carpet the ground into clouds. My lessons in acupressure are put to use as I finger trace a line with raindrop tenderness sweeping with feather-soft artistry into the crevasse of between her moons. I sink my hand into the nucleus of her valentine feeling the clench that is her sign language for yes. She timidly reaches down in wonder and places her palm on her solar plexus. Her muscles flex like a jaguar in hot pursuit of the nurture my hands’ promise. Her voice cracks like a pubescent lad but hers is born of hunger as I gaze into the limitless ocean of a woman’s famished body.
She turns onto her back to place her hand upon her navel to harness the full benefit from my massage. Again, I anoint her luster with the cream. With sudden daring, I clasp her very hand with which she touches her hara in the center of her abdomen called source of life in Japan whose center is her belly button. Her navel is the gate of her spirit through which she received life from her mother. Organic rhythms resonate with her deep but even breathing. Together we build her courage to receive a human touch.
Her muscles tremor like a zealot on fire with God. Her tears become veins of passion and sorrow which trickle down her golden face. Her face is the source of divinity that glows like Orion’s nebula. A deep resonance of pleasure ripples from the chambers of her body.
She says, “I felt your spirit move through me like a warm river through my hips falling like gentle ocean waves onto my womanly shore. Spiral patterns, the seeds of flowers and stars, germinated within me.” She sits up and that very same bottom I touched into rebirth is smeared in the dust of the dead. Our lips touch in unison of one being within the Goddess. Once more her face takes on a rosy luster as fresh as April.
“It has been so long since I was touched by a man. You don’t know what this means to me,” she exclaims. Her gratefulness absolves me of guilt. I don’t fancy being a lecher.
She says, “I didn’t twitch the whole time.” She sits there quivering like a sparrow. Then a tentative smile forms on her face only to submerge into a frown once more. She says, “Mister I look like a cremationist who got bored on the job. Handi-Wipes would do nicely on my seat.”
“Do you mean your seat of consciousness?”
“Silly man, how could you wipe my brain?”
I reply, “I was saving these for a rainy day. But it hardly rains anymore.”
She says, “Wait one minute. Were you implying that my fundament is where my mind resides?”
“Men have a propensity to think with their gonads. Regardless of where his or her mind abides the tawdriness of male crudity can’t hold a candle to the eloquence of women.”
She says, “You had me at tawdriness. Now get to work on me pronto.” I take delicate care in wiping the black dust from her derriere. I help her up and we proceed down the road to nowhere. She follows me like a guru in this city lost in dreams. I put my arm around her waist to comfort her body. What more can I do to ease her passage down these graveyards of humanity?
I embrace her in her grief. I mourn for my wasted life and my family whom I’d lost in the chaos of calamity. We walk on, two pilgrims, searching for a way home. She says, “Let’s pretend we just got married. Carry me across the threshold of my new home.” We arrive at the asylum where her eyes sparkle with tears of gratitude. I am weak but she is light. So I scoop her up into my arms. I introduce her to the house mistress who refreshes her wardrobe.
Like a defrocked priestess summarily refrocked who never felt fully dressed without her vestment, she dons her new dress before doffing her token tatters of a tunic. She is a doppelganger of my long lost wife who emerged from her shower dressed in her nightgown like a deaconess in her cassock. Her panties were the closing act in her nightly ritual that entailed the strange modesty of her back turned in the interest of decency. She lingered in the beauty of her naked proportions while putting on the guise of “Moi, little me? Any nudity is incidental to putting on my sleepwear. My intentions are virtuous as yours were when you were a young man and resisted all those girlie magazines.”
With much regret, I leave her there having been smitten by her. Burnt umber hue eddies in autumn leaf textures paint the sky. Tainted mist rises in conch shell swirls. Stained glass colors blossom in the evening sky. Sorrowful clouds gather on the western horizon. I sleep in the ruins of a church on the altar once reserved for sacred ceremonies. The next morning I take to the air in my aeroplane seeking the remnants of humanity among the ruins of earth.