The whiskey is finished finally. My husband Greg is distant as ever, he stands just at my fingertips; he won’t let me lean into him. I don’t think I’m magic for him anymore.

Seven years of my problems, his problems, and our problems--that pressure turned devotion into responsibility. Our Santeria, our spin, yell, dance, and body possession of that raging spirit--that otherworldly force that had always been him and me—us, I suppose our Santeria is no longer supported by the crowd that gathers in tourist clumps in the Voodoo Museum.

Is it my current situation? I’m sure it is the fact that I called him on it. I made him look at his responsibility for his role in our problems with 62 pictures of my face and body in various shades of watercolors; some blue, and green. My skin, was a study of a pond at night in those pictures. The aesthetic disappeared when you turn the picture over and read the date and time glowing orange in the corner. Ponds don’t change colors that fast, not even ponds at night, but I did. Those pictures I had kept hidden at a friend’s house.

Can life, even the tooth and nail kind that I’ve lead; can it support such a cannibal? By cannibal, I mean Greg and me. It is what we are, cannibals feeding off of each other so many years that love expressed in fuel consuming fire, we’re bound to weaken at some point. Greg is only twenty-seven years old. He has a lot of life ahead of him. I’m only two years older, but my life is much heavier.

There’s my son who doesn’t live with me, and I will not sign him away and let his stepfather adopt him. It’s just not something I’m prepared to do, because my son is one of the only things of permanence in my life. I’m sure that weighs Greg down in some ways, but he’s always wanted a child, and really no one knows, he already has one—one that he’s not going to give up without the deadliest of fights, because that’s my husband.

Teeth to the bone when he bites. Greg is single minded like, a dog bred for hunting, Greg doesn’t let go.

My bones have the teeth marks—I know.

In a couple of weeks it will be five months gone since he bit down on me and shook his head “No.”

I wish it were seven years ago. Greg and I had just started dating, and I was a lot bigger, muscle/mass wise than I am now. I could match him, even though he still had three inches and sixty or so pounds on me, I could still match him, step for step.

We went on a trip to New Orleans. I had lived there a couple of years earlier, and we made our imprint there. Our favorite club at the time was Oz. I still remember the second floor, balcony doors wide open, and dancing. I was dancing, because dancing is a faith to me… a Santeria-like exploration of spinning, twisting, turning weaving in the beat-brick bass—I would sweat until I drowned, shirtless—not caring of the pinwheel tatt on my chest, just exploring my faith in prayer and movement.
I was rolling muscles, pulling muscles, and eyes—not hazed in a defocusing glow of drugs—but of the energy