An abandonment, this escape…B’s mind having held its turn, unrevolute; a virgin transcendence — how everything fails…the forefinger of His righthand, knuckled up her tush, is rendered limp: analgesic, obtund. As for His tongue unpronouncing, it’s numb, too, paralyzed, flailingly within the strain of its veins, licking to stick to the roof of the mouth of the womb of His mother — this, in a sensational loss of sensation. In His need to please her, He’s forgotten Himself, and gone wanting: His forefinger then hand entire drops weakly to the mattress’ lip. His tongue hard and fat sticks fast between the presences of her hips. Due to His disposition, and despite their thrashing accompanied by an incomprehensible language of gurgles, it cleaves between her clitoris, which is understandably engorged, and her prepuce if He knows where those are, even what. Marys no longer sisters or mother responsible more like reverted, twelve shocked, freaking, screeching girls with their gnawed sharp fastflying manicures and their wighair afling, their falsies falling lump to the pits of their arms, mountains leveled, razed, terraces tumbled down from the lush, weatherhigh hills to the stomach’s desert, its flat unforgiving — they gather quickly, tightly, mind the flames assembling in a wreathe around Him; groping to still His limbs from their flail and from her, knocking over the candles to set the carpeting to smoke, to set fire, the mattress burning then their stockings and skirts catching, too, as they attempt half to put themselves out with their girdles and then with their nails to dislodge Him and so leaving scratches across the plains of His flesh, shiring along with Him their alarm, what has to be the strangest song ever sung in a land this poorly, hourly accommodated; as if pitched to sirens, geshraying…wildly the Hanna Mary has her hands on His fevered skull, attempts to slap Him loose, swatting the soundings echoing from within then through her as she sits up, bears down on Him between her legs snaked and slippery: His head, huge, as if a birthed tumor, a blond inner growth perhaps a bit balding upon aeration, receding in revelation, with the hairs of His neck tangled slovenly with the hair of His back, singed, scorched amid the sloppy flares of flesh that lap and lick their ways down the widening wick of his bottomless sit and hips, the waist and the bulge beneath it, His fat, furry middle melting into a shiny puddle of shvitz; the other Marys up and tugging at the Hanna Mary’s hair in altogether now one, two, Three, then off with her wig to grab at her real hair knotted underneath again one two, He’s hyperventilating is what His mother would’ve said if she were His true mother, overbearing as always and suffocant, nearly unconscious, or maybe she’s already dead — finally, and yet still feeling Him: the dread that midwifes any attempt at pleasure, attends every hope of fulfillment. As if expectant, virginred a flush, He’s overheated from gasping her hysterical air then the no air, from gorging on her juices and fruit, the sin of the apple…B’s complexion that humiliated shade, mortified but alive, still submerged: up to His neck in it, gagging on an odd mucosal mixture, saliva and female ejaculate flooding down His throat without the obstruction of acting tongue, but with the jaw lamely free to take in all at once without swallow. Now, some of the Marys are pulling the Hanna Mary by her natural hair, the other Marys pulling Him the opposite and pushing Him out, too, unnaturally — they hold, they cling, they’re clingers, they clutch, they’re clutchers, at His shoes, His socks fallen, then the toes and His feet and at joint of His knee, haunches, lardaceous lovehandles and shoulders, leaning away from Him from her with the force of their weight, not enough.
