I enter the room beside you. Take off my overcoat. Drop my handbag on the bed With bewildered gestures I take off my glasses Indecisive I stand fidgeting. I love you and feel frightened. I watch you waiting for you to decide what you'll do with this object (warm slender vertical) that I am We're talking together. I watch you. I do not touch you It's warm and we go on talking together. You do not touch me And I feel death as it slipping into the room-it is here it is now it is between us- I feel how with its chisel it disfigures the features of my face maims my sex my breasts meticulously sculpts the bitter curve of my mouth It's warm. I become thinner and thinner. In the room there's fog a hot haze it smells burnt it smells of man (Oho. I inhaled the smoke from the crematorium the day of your death in another lifetime of ours not very far away-at Auschwitz A survivor I washed my hands tidily with soap made of your flesh The violence the guilt with which I love you thus derive from that distance If you won't touch me now I understand: it's your turn) Vertical like a pendulum's rod I let myself be worked on by death Ohoho. It's hot like in a crematorium. It's late. It smells of smoke It smells of carbonized human flesh If you won't hide me now I understand: it's your turn
This copy is for your personal, noncommercial use only. You can order presentation-ready copies for distribution by contacting us at email@example.com.