x=

Claire, not Olympia then. He looks at her in this
new light as he scrubs her back. How could he
not have noticed those pimples on her shoul-
ders? Perhaps that is why he was unable to
stomach her. But no, no, the mystery is more
than skin deep.

“Scrub harder, Manuelo.”

He does, marveling at the dead skin which peels
off, flake by flake. How many layers are there?
He stares into the skin, lost in ponderings
beneath the surface and then, with a wild cry of
exultation, realizes that he has found his calling.
Dermatology will teach him the topography of
the flesh. Through that mundane profession he
will explore the twin mysteries of desire and
disgust.

“You’re breaking the skin again!” shouts Claire.
“Enough!”

YOU

“You have helped me to find myself,” they ad-
mit simultaneously and, with a tender embrace,
part forever.

ZOON

Shining in the sunlight which is shining too, she
runs to the park. Abigale is asleep; a caterpillar
is making a moustache on her upper lip. Claire
picks it off and tosses it carelessly into the grass.
It slithers away as Abigale wakes.

“Where have you been?” drowsy A asks. Claire
hesitates. What words could convey the ab-
surdity, the enormity of her adventure? An
attempt is necessary. She begins to stammer a
reply but her stomach, miraculously to the
rescue, speaks first: loudly it rumbles, fiercely it
growls. Both women laugh. The noise suffices
for response.

Claire stretches out her hands to Abigale and,
with a little tug, pulles her to her feet.

“It's time for another beginning,” Claire says.

“It always was,” Abigale grins.

And off they go, old friends hand in hand, in
search of apples.

Susan Yankowitz’s first novel, Silent Witness, was published
by Knopf in May. Her play, Still Life, will be produced in
January at the Women's Interarts Theatre, and her pub-
lished plays include Slaughterhouse Play, Terminal, Boxes,
and The Prison Game, among others.

”fl”flwflflwflwflfi

IS S S S

ST

S

VoD D0 o e e

W””###fl:flf”fl‘”##fl'flf';' —

Do You Think

Jayne Cortez

Do you think this is a sad day
a sad night

full of tequila full of el dorado
full of banana solitudes

And my chorizo face a holiday for knives
and my arching lips a savannah for cuchifritos
and my spit curls a symbol for you
to overcharge overbill oversell me
these saints these candles
these dented cars loud pipes
no insurance and no place to park
because my last name is Cortez

Do you think this is a sad night
asad day

And on this elevator

between my rubber shoes
in the creme de menthe of my youth

the silver tooth of my age
the gullah speech of my one trembling tit
full of tequila full of el dorado

full of banana solitudes you tell me
i use more lights more gas

more telephones more sequins more feathers
more iridescent head-stones

you think i accept this pentecostal church
in exchange for the lands you stole

And because my name is Cortez
do you think this is a revision

of flesh studded with rivets
my wardrobe clean

the pick in my hair
the pomegranate in my hand

14th street delancey street 103rd street
reservation where i lay my skull

the barrio of need
the police state in ashes

drums full of tequila full of el dorado
full of banana solitudes say:

Do you really think time speaks english
in the mens room

Jayne Cortez was born in Arizona and grew up in the Watts
Community of Los Angeles. She is the author of three
books of poetry— Pissstained Stairs and the Monkey Man’s
Wares (1969), Festivals and Funerals (1971), Scarifications
(1973), from which this poem is reprinted, and a recording
_ Celebrations and Solitudes (Strata East Records, 1975).

57