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02.25.02 - 6:46 p.m. there is something in the stretch of my arms that is lonely and comforting at the same time. Something about the space around my body where no one has been, the small of my back that has been its own bend of body all these years. All by myself me memorizing the curves of my body and the planes of myself. My fingers each growing longer and longer over 22 years but always by themselves with no other fingers between them, no other palm pressed against the cool wash of mine, no small muscles tugging gently this way or that way. On my way down stairs with no hand on my back, across the street, past dangerous men, ive had my own head about me and my hands at my side, empty and aware. In new orleans things were different. My body all the same, boa and jeans and practical shoes under all of that, but a man with 30 year old eyes picking out shifty men on the side of the street and guiding me to the outside, a good man between me and someone with wrong intentions. A heavy arm across my shoulder with fingers pressing, pulling me close and away from the swing of a leather jacket, against the sway of a drunken teenage boy, switching me swift to the other side as we passed sex shops and three tall men with beards and paper bags. A firm hand on the small of my back above the loose waist of my jeans, and five fingertips i stopped to count at a red light. I could feel all five points of his hand holding and guiding, warning and leading. It made me want to run into the street and down alleys, it made me want to walk fast and close my eyes. It separated me from myself, put my defenses on hold, and in a sense it distanced me from myself, took the one thing i was used to and folded it into the shadow of a french quarter doorway, to be left behind. And then in the street, of course, he took the bottom of my shirt and lifted, i was thrown beads, red and green and white and gold and pink, falling to the street, against me shoe, across the shoulders of a girl in a prom dress. He put them around my neck and i looked for the hands that threw them, i looked for someone's eyes, and the hand on my back again, and laughing. I held to my shirt with a pinky, the other four fingers laced tightly with his, sweaty. I know how girls get in trouble this way. I understand how it would feel to wake up in this mans bed with the decent intentions and a warm sense of you, letting go, into him. I stepped to the corner of responsible me and considered making my way down, his arm around my shoulder, pulling. I let my feet step one in front of the other, my head, heavy with alcohol and heat find his shoulder. Up curbs and down into the street, a firm tug of his hand as cars pass, a firm pull before the next. The pungent relief of letting go. The warm thrill of weighing in and handing it all off for someone else to carry. The deep water of you letting someone else see, someone else lead, someone else find your body in the sea of other bodies and hold on. And then, still, the desire to turn circles with my arms extended, touching no one again. The desire to touch everywhere and find nothing but familiarity. The need to lay down and find the rise of my ribs, the dip of my stomach, the sharp rise of my hips, and have that for my own, for awhile longer. � 
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