Pandora's Box Opens and Terence Crutcher Dies

Abstract

610 Feminist Studies 43, no. 3. © 2017 by Raina J. León Pandora’s Box Opens and Terence Crutcher Dies Raina J. León Fresh from the bath, my husband comes nude, beard trimmed, still glistening and pinked. He shares the fullness of his skin, freckles and moles in their constellations. What little fat on his lank jiggles, begs for pinch as he turns to the closet to dig. I am encapsulated by covers. No sleep for hours since I woke to watch the video I couldn’t with him awake. How I watched it, over and over, and knew this might be how I die: a broken-down car, my hands up, helicopters above with a man saying, a real bad dude, must be, and then shot, because Terence is me, like Sandy and Aisha . . . because just that day, earlier, I was transformed into child, questioned on the body of my work, made invisible and hypervisible, bleeding shadow for another’s feet. One leads to another in a mass of entangled links. Now, he moves. He does not feel the cold I dread out there where reality gnashes. Raina J. León 611 Inside the cocoon, the smell of last night’s tremble sweat, I can imagine entrance into another dreaming, breathe in and out our twining. He slips on boxers, then soft cotton shirt, then jeans. All black, his style. In my mourning, I call him close, and he comes to bed. With his body, he creates another womb as suddenly the weeping starts, says, when you are ready, tell me, because he doesn’t know how the world turns, yet in that moment, there is a hope. ...