Letters to Maria Coryaté Part IX. [postmark: April 2nd, 2015]

 

Hey, Maria;

How’s stuff?  (the nineties-kid reply to that nineties-kid question is, stuff’s good.  Don’t forget the apostrophe, babe, otherwise it means multiple-stuffs/good, which makes it sound like a grocery list, not your life.)  Babe, tell me about yo-self…  How’s treatment?  Did you get in to any med-schools?  Plannin’ any swanky trips to any righteous places?…

Speaking of swanky, tonight I want to prove to you how elegant you are.  So, there is this poet named Marvell, who totally wrote: “Had we but world enough and time, an hundred years should go to praise thine eyes, and on your forehead gaze.  Two hundred to adore each breast, but thirty thousand to the rest.”  Babe, consider these letters me, with both world enough and time.  Tonight’s letter will gaze upon your grace and elegance.  Babe, when I saw you at that Institut Victoria party, in that black dress for the first time, babe… I swear, I was absolutely terrified for like, three secs, to even ask you to dance.  But then you made eye-contact with me.  You would know more about this than me, about eye dilation and emotional impact, but you just vacuumed me toward you with your big, brown eyes.

Then, dancing with you happened.  Babe, you should take some dancing lessons, for serious, cause you kept stepping on my toes.  But my point is, it didn’t matter.  We laughed about it.  That is gracefulness, laughing over one’s mistakes.  And slim, black dresses.  And big, brown eyes. 

An example of a neoliberal binary: boys are supposed to have blue eyes, cause they’re supposedly more penetrating— sounds sexy, if you buy that load; but girls should definitely have brown eyes, cause they’re deeper— a personal theory of mine.  I’ve done a fair amount of research to back that one up, too.

later,

Patrick

 

A non-Normative Beauty I Know

She doesn’t care her lips red.

She doesn’t care her cheekbones high.

She doesn’t care she holds her head so tall and well bred.

She doesn’t care her nose so fine.

She doesn’t care her eyes wide

as lanterns in the lighthouse.

She doesn’t care her arms slim

as birch tree limbs in wind.

She doesn’t care her belly’s flat

as shore stretching along the sea.

She doesn’t care her legs are long as you could Ever find,

thighs rich and thick, slimming

as they progress toward her knee.

For she lives a life of the mind.

.

 

 

more Letters to Maria Coryaté

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