Erika Brumett

THE MANY LIVES OF LITTLE DEATHS

                   “Although paroxysmal rhythms may be similar, no two

                    orgasms are identical in character, or nuance of experience.”

                              —Mona Johnson, PhD (The Neurophenomenology of Lust)

One comes, a murmuration—
starlings wing-to-wing, birling

 

sun—while another thrums the blood-
song of some alley tom, all hiss

 

and fur-rip and maul, yowls in throbs
with claws drawn long. Last night:

 

a seesaw, its lift to the tip-
top, then its fall. This morning: a blitz

 

of shocks across the limbic lobe, watts
in jolts through electrodes. Like snow-

 

flakes, they say—or genomes, or flames—
each unique, sui generis, no two

 

the same. When over, though, the pall
is always identical. A catacomb-

 

hollow where cold echoes, and angels
open carved mouths in sorrow,

 

or in sleep. A stillness so close
to stone, it friezes in relief.

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