It was in the line at the market yesterday.
\nThe checkout girl asked me about the pears
\non my left arm. Surprised for a second,\u201d\u00a8
\nbecause in Manhattan I am rarely asked\u201d\u00a8
\nto surface out of invisibility, I came stuttering.\u201d\u00a8
\n\u201cAugustine.” As though it were\u201d\u00a8an invocation.
\n\u201cHis first sin was stealing a pear.”
\n\u201d\u00a8I explained, \u201cOut of desire. Not because\u201d\u00a8
\nhe was hungry or in need\u201d\u00a8
\nof fruit.” Her face was so still and
\nconfused:\u201d\u00a8her teeth interrupted somewhere.\u201d\u00a8
\nI laughed.<\/p>\n
Often, I laugh when I have nothing to say.\u201d\u00a8
\nAnd I flashed my tattoo one more time\u201d\u00a8
\nleaving. Maybe she laughed too. And
\nif that is true then perhaps it is also the case\u201d\u00a8
\nthat we were laughing out of understanding
\nthe same strange discomfort.<\/p>\n
To tell the truth I did not know that story\u201d\u00a8
\nuntil two years after I had paid $80 for the taupe pears\u201d\u00a8
\nand their stems next to my body, a bluer green\u201d\u00a8
\nthan the one in the drawing. The stippling\u201d\u00a8
\nof blood underneath it was pink and convincing\u201d\u00a8
\nbut soon healed off. This was in Ann Arbor. I was eighteen\u2014<\/p>\n
No, nineteen, but eighteen when I remember it.\u201d\u00a8
\nWe had walked all day, my friend and I, speaking\u201d\u00a8
\nto body artists as though we were litigators. We forced\u201d\u00a8
\nthem to draw sample sketches of produce\u201d\u00a8
\nthat we criticized and then refused. And kept walking.\u201d\u00a8
\nMaybe selectivity is forgivable in context\u201d\u00a8
\nof the permanence we sought after. Though too<\/p>\n
I am sure that we had little sense\u201d\u00a8
\nof time that wasn’t ours to spend\u201d\u00a8
\nstuck with ink, pins or whatever was used
\n\u201d\u00a8to penetrate skin, illustrate, alter it.\u201d\u00a8
\nShe got a beet. We liked the way these renderings\u201d\u00a8
\nof produce looked. Their line detail. We were excited\u201d\u00a8
\nto uncover them when they healed. I thought also:\u201d\u00a8
\nembarrassing but true, of a girl I used to watch\u201d\u00a8
\nuse the elliptical machine at college\u201d\u00a8
\nand her arm moving back and forth with colored vines\u201d\u00a8
\nwrapping around it. How she managed to look complicated\u201d\u00a8
\neven though she was going nowhere. But how to explain that?\u201d\u00a8
\nWe are born out of desire. Not need or reason.\u201d\u00a8
\nNot hunger.<\/p>\n
Samples of My Credibility<\/strong><\/p>\n Let me tell you about one of the resumes *<\/p>\n I had just left Los Angeles *<\/p>\n In one of these small, bald towns It was just the hour The air was thick with fumes of vehicles No one came by those days *<\/p>\n I remember them each Now, when I think of this If you were quiet and moved quickly When they moved, even the land Or even less. <\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> To tell the truth I did not know that story\u201d\u00a8 No, nineteen, but eighteen when I remember it.\u201d\u00a8 By Jacqueline Lucile Tiven.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-51081","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51081","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=51081"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51081\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=51081"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=51081"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=51081"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nI have falsified. <\/p>\n
\nand every few months, I moved
\nfurther inland. Just far enough
\nin the opposite direction of the Pacific Ocean
\nto be sure that no one had heard of me.<\/p>\n
\nbeside the desert I poured drinks
\non Sunday afternoons. <\/p>\n
\nwhen the last few\u2014
\nthe most long winded and somber\u2013
\nof Church services
\ncould not even bare
\nto persevere. <\/p>\n
\nmoving back towards the city
\nand away from it at the same time:
\na fog so grey and tense
\nit can only be remembered as blue. <\/p>\n
\nexcept four or five of a similar kind
\nof man. They were not proper farmers
\nbut had fallen somehow
\ninto a life of rising early
\nto tend land.<\/p>\n
\nappearing so very tall
\nwhen they rose from their barstools
\nto leave or use the washroom.<\/p>\n
\nit is not exactly how it seemed then,
\nas if all the world rose and surrounded me
\nso panoramic and grand
\nbut never too difficult to elude.<\/p>\n
\nbetween places no one could find out
\nwhat life lay behind you. Who knows
\nwhether those large, looming figures
\nkept or could not discern my secrets.<\/p>\n
\nseemed big and slow. But they might
\nhave not been. Yes. Likely, it had
\nmore to do with their presence.
\nOr it had to do with me. <\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/picturelucy.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nThough typically pleasant, Jacqueline Lucile Tiven<\/strong> mumbles when drunk. She has convex ankles and has caught her feet in many shoes, and in many degrees of severity. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/picturelucy1-420x179.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nuntil two years after I had paid $80 for the taupe pears\u201d\u00a8
\nand their stems next to my body, a bluer green\u201d\u00a8
\nthan the one in the drawing. The stippling\u201d\u00a8
\nof blood underneath it was pink and convincing\u201d\u00a8
\nbut soon healed off. This was in Ann Arbor. I was eighteen\u2013<\/p>\n
\nWe had walked all day, my friend and I, speaking\u201d\u00a8
\nto body artists as though we were litigators. We forced\u201d\u00a8
\nthem to draw sample sketches of produce\u201d\u00a8
\nthat we criticized and then refused. And kept walking.\u201d\u00a8
\nMaybe selectivity is forgivable in context\u201d\u00a8
\nof the permanence we sought after.<\/p>\n