8:118) chris abraham 03-FEB-98 11:47

the wolf men. the hair gene. faces covered with hair, a small tribe in mexico. looks like a poodle. freak shows in the carnival. people who work for carnivals are called "carnies." when i look at your belly, pressing the abdomen with my palm, softly, wondering at the womb, wondering at the organs so small to fit in the little spaces. the warmth of the belly. the way your face gets red when there is a gurgle. the way you love me to lie there with you in my arms. rubbing your belly. it soothes you, it helps you digest, helps you relax. the brown belly, the fine down of yellow hairs that cover the entire body. except where the razor has been. the sheets feel smooth and cool on the shaved leg. some shave below the knee, others take it up the thigh. i shave your legs sometimes. the brown legs. the fine down of yellow hairs above the razor line. if you cannot see the little hairs, look closer. when you walk under the sun, the jeans low and the top cut above the hip, i watch the fine yellow hairs catch sun at the small of your back. sometimes these fine yellow hairs stubbornly stick to a knee. the knee, both front and where the leg folds, is so very hard to shave, so very hard not to knick. many women have scars on their knees, on the ridge of their shin, from where their knicks have added up. in an attempt to remove those tiny yellow hairs. you tell me about your bikini line. you are proud of yourself -- how prepared you are for the beach, for the narrow swaths of fabric you parade on the beach. the high cut suit, the french cut named for the way it accentuates the short-legged french women's long torso, the way it makes the legs look longer, more elegant. it make the hip part of the leg. i watch the tiny yellow hairs sparkle at the spine, between the shoulderblades. i walk over and run my finger down your back and you shudder, turn around, and embrace me. i feel the sun in you, you are infused.