American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 71
Grasp
Andrey Shamshurin
“Syphilis.” Syphilis. It is the only real word that slips from behind the
fence, and you find that you have lost its meaning. You sit at the edge of
your pool, a glass of whiskey in your hand. The water is green and ripples
pinch the surface. Syphilis. The man’s screams are loud, a rough pitch of
bourbon in his voice. You can smell it in the sound. Her voice seems soft,
you think, but when you take a sip of whiskey, you cannot remember what
soft is. Instead, her voice sounds like syphilis, the water like syphilis, the
shape of your foot drifting, a net of light wrapped loose around your leg
like syphilis. The drops of liquid fall into the pool, brown seeds dissolving
in the green. And he is now screaming, “Get throat fucked,” and you can
feel each syllable. And something breaks behind the fence, crashes like
shards that crack and split until there is no glass left.
You pour yourself another drink. You can’t decide if “throat fucked” is
good or bad. You have lost its meaning too. It sounds vulgar, like bucolic
hut, crepuscular phlegm. Not smooth like syphilis, smooth like your house
lights dying in the night, their flicker fading till the green-lime lights are
all that’s left, hidden in the water. Beautiful, you think, but beautiful is not
a word for meaning anymore, the liquid swirling down your throat. That
simple little sound, like syphilis.
The bottle seems empty now, a green sheen trapped inside the glass. But
just behind the fence, out past the leaves that drift, half-drowned, are
sounds much more complex. “Whore,” “slut,” and “cunt.” And somehow
“love,” which sounds like nothing floating in your pool.
American River Review
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