How Free She Is

Kristy Nielsen

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Gloria's Origins

Gloria has no mother. Or maybe thousands. It is either unspeakable or holy to think of her origin, to remember her sliding whole to those who made her like this.

Gloria is free from the society of women. She has defected. Maybe she was stolen. She waved good by, crying from happiness, as their bus pulled out. "Crying from happiness," she explained to onlookers. Mourning like a woman, but without women to hold her arm and sway with her.

Gloria really came into being when she left her first lover. She stood in the rain as the train pulled out and you watched her. You said you saw a smile hidden on her face. You boasted you could have gotten closer, you sensed it. You alleged her skirt flashed to the side for your benefit. That is the least of what you claimed you saw, you with your secret eye, before you went back to watching.

This is About You

Gloria will never know what you think of her. You can be detached, objective even. Freckle, mole, vein.

What is her motivation for lifting an arm against the curtain when she's lying naked on the bed? Speculate. There. Now she's exposed a thigh, and she's easing her breast under the curtain. The way the light comes from behind . . . She's got to know. How generous will you be? How involved?

Before you make a judgment, watch her in the kitchen this morning, humble with a coffee cup. Yes, she should eat better. But her bad habits don't show yet.

Take her to the bed. She seems so comfortable there. Turn her over. Observe the part of her hair, the flesh of her shoulders. Gloria runs her left hand over mysterious plains and fingers a collar bone.

How did you want her to be? Look, she's changed. She's yours more than mine. She's pink. She's blue and green. She's got scales. Feathers. Fur. Teeth between her breasts, and one long claw that grows on the full moon and swings behind her. Whatever you think.

But She Isn't Tied At All

If she were tied with the stems of the rarest flower--one almost extinct--she'd rip the roots from the ground. If that would let her walk away.

People on the street call her Tracy or Shelly. They say, "Don't I know you?" People tell her she looks so familiar. She tries to adopt a unique posture and carriage. She renames herself. First Rebecca. Then Helen. Finally, Gloria. She selects earrings, chooses colors of her outfits to clash.

It can't be true that she has only a small square for a garden, or that nothing grows there but rambling weeds and a little catnip. Gloria must have cultivated roses, the rarest of hybrids, herbs to be snipped and added to pasta dishes.

On a still night, if she fell asleep on the garden bed, the stems of flowers would circle her wrists and try to pull her back. . .

But she isn't tied with the stems of rare flowers. That sacrifice won't be hers.

It can't be true that she brings men to gasps and moans, to bucking audiences with God. That is just a rumor.

That isn't her mouth, is it? Do the men leave her money? Do they really care about her folds and crepe-paper insides?

If the last train were leaving town, she'd jump aboard, worry about details later. If you were at the station waving, she'd pretend not to know you.

That's how brave she is. How free.

Gloria At Night

Gloria dances with her own dark hair, shiny with sweat. Her eyebrows move like knitting needles unraveling their work. In the blue light, when Gloria sways slowly, moths land on her glowing skin.

"Will you scratch me all over?" she seems to ask you. "Will you wash me?" Soap slips palm to palm as she changes partners on the dance floor.

She looks at your lines. You can see her imagining. And how do you measure up? Does she catch you drooling on old sheets? Or, like you hope: hard, a little bit cold, with tough lizard skin, and a quick tongue to snatch the food that hangs off her. Right before her eyes.

When Gloria Touches Herself

When Gloria touches herself, men break the window with their noses.

When she traces circles, labels the triangle, blends colors.

She braids her hair into long thin tendrils that reach her ankles. She touches herself until her aura's the color of gingham, shape of a young girl's dress with a few pieces cut out.

She balances air on her hand's pedestal and transfers goblets of it to her breasts and hips. Easy. She arches.

She takes the long bead of an earring and brings it to her V. Triangle cutouts drop from her dress. A flock of pigeons rises and settles then rises again like pockets turned inside out.

When Gloria touches herself, she finds more than a garden, more than a dent. Her finger is more than a knob and the fluid is not butter.

When Gloria touches herself, she finds a secret lock that her key slips into. Inside, a room of liquid figures rock in the rhythm of her breath, arch with the long inhale, stay suspended while Gloria holds her breath, then settle to center with the exhale, link arms, spinning, bending, showing. Parting like they'd reached the shore.

Gloria Disappears With or Without You

When Gloria's poor, the devil buys her ice cream and angels sew colors to her last t-shirt. A passerby rolls up Gloria's sleeves. Another cinches her waist with street twine. They can't help themselves. Gloria licks pistachio nut, her face browned by sun, her body hinged with ineffable desires.

The sun moves across the street and exposes her. How many times have you been down this way without noticing? You sense something childlike about her. You sense something unreal. The day turns slowly on an alternate axis. The sun shines on the wrong side of the street causing purple spokes to rise from the sidewalk and painted sunflowers to appear on the benches.

This isn't a movie, but the music rises anyway. You know you'll do something crazy. A window has broken somewhere. A fish tank has shattered and tropical fishes flap on the sidewalk as you step, step, step over to Gloria.

She fades into the wall. "How do you know you're not asleep?" she whispers.

"Come back!" Slapping, pinching, hitting yourself awake.

She's around the corner. "Ok," she admits. "You are awake." The sky goes black behind her, between her bare spread legs.

Where has the day gone? The square room with angles of light? The bank you'd been striding toward, the city, and that long driveway at the end of the day you'd thought led home?

Caught Watching Gloria

"I am happy to be free," she sobs after leaving another lover. In the rain outside the train station, she watches water run on the cement, turns and speaks to you. You expect her to ask how long you've been following her, to demand an explanation. Instead, she refers vaguely to the different shades of green in the ocean.

Her hand moves in a studied way that makes you want to trace her arms to their end. But everything about Gloria seems to go on forever. Where does she begin? She sees you watching and ripples her arm on purpose. It is a trick.

When you look into her eyes, she seems as familiar as a brother or a best friend. You mistake her ears for puppies, and her hair for that dirt outside the old cottage. Your secrets come pouring out, racing down her arms like milk, streaming all over her brown skin with the intuitive flow of hands. You want to pour yourself into every crevice, enfold her in your arms. But your touch washes off in the rain. Arms can be opened.

Gloria will lead you to a dry room with a view of the ocean. She will model herself on the sea, bringing forth briny fruit and rolling her hips toward you like the tide. She will bring you home, she will show you the ever-present flame, she will promise forever, and she will leave you too.

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