Sometimes I think I’m Kathleen Turner, not all Broadway-ed up, bitch and whiskey, but more stiletto-ed, a vapor liqueur with tiny tits who can mind- fuck William Hurt until his groin is wrecked and he murders. That kind of power. That kind of lure. How else to gloss the afternoon between trains—Chicago— the Art Museum. I remember: it was crowded. There was a butterfly in my palm. I was still a blonde then, hair down to my shoulders, in torn jeans and buckskin, lingering before Lautrec’s At the Moulin Rouge. I thought I was a man, but then I was all panther, Body Heat, a green face tipped against another man’s longing, his whispering: how Lautrec had to extend the canvas (you can see the cut line) * to give more body to the work. By which he meant his place, my mouth, his... hand fluttering in my hand. By which he meant Chagall, that blue world... his ace gear angel, fabulous 175, closeted cake boy, limp-armed, a little lame in the pants, flaming, fruit, * faggot.... I had a woman then (this is wrong) and was a dog for it. Was a hound so when she asked me to do X in a dark room, I did, and together, we burned a law. As for Chicago, nothing happened. I morphed back to being a man, if that’s what I was in the first place, made the train, held jobs, had boring sex, raised a daughter. But still that blue light, skewed light, was everywhere... in the side-long glances from other men, from neighbors who thought I was gay, in what my wife read, pressed so far down into the grain of a pew it would take her nearly half her life— * and her mother’s death—before she took my hand and put it down. Our daughter was in the other room— we were whispering—our words were knives. We made the cut lines—the canvas tore. She was sad, apologetic. She had never killed a man before, or fashioned such a perfect death. And then a little nervous— * she had yet to taste a woman, my malfior, madivinaise, my she who drinks from the cup. It was missionary work after that. Pity sex. What to do with the child, though the child had long floated, gone Chagall one Christmas with scissors and crayons. I remember: the school room wall was crowded. We were scrunched in tiny desks, two skewed parents, elbows on kneecaps, beholding a litter of angels, 29 in all, stapled in a wedge, identically robed, pre-fab, wheeling from a blood feather hub: what my daughter saw in that nulling heaven: herself as Adonis, shirtless, sculpted, blue, glittery with anti-gravity, trumpeting her mute refusal.