Sarjé is a painter and writer living in Kalapuya ancestral territory. You can learn more about her at http://sarje.art.
How to Use Chopsticks
Peter and Fred boarded a plane six days after I arrived in Beijing. I was busying myself snapping photos at every turn, recording expenses and conversations, for the Travel feature. The sunlight slanted across my frequent haunt, the Palace Museum, in the early mornings of a beautiful spring. I satisfied my homesickness for Washington, D.C. by wandering through this temple to the arts. For the sake of the article, I’d also visited the typical tourist destinations of China, and was now preparing to tour various Buddhist temples in and around the city. I set out for Biyun Si, the Temple of the Azure Clouds. I never got to any temple beyond it.
Audrey’s eyelashes fluttered open, and she slowly took in the morning light filtering through the lace curtains. Dust motes flashed in the sun’s rays, slowly falling like glitter-snow in a globe. She felt the gentle pressure of Thomas’ morning wood behind her, and his warm weight resting gently against her back. She pressed back against him ever so slightly, felt herself stir slightly, then pressed her cheek back into the downy pillow and closed her eyes again, drifting back into momentary slumber. Thomas felt her supple ass against him, and began to awaken. He slowly ran a hand up her side, from mid-thigh up to her waist. He slid the hand down her midsection and curled his arm around her breasts, his hand crossing between them, feeling her heartbeat. He rested there for only a moment, then stroked a finger up her clavicle and neck, up to Audrey’s left ear, where he ran the fingers gently through her hair. She shifted, a small smile on her lips, and again pressed her rear against his growing member. He pressed his face into her neck, kissing her softly behind the ear. Thomas slid his hand back down her arm, appreciating the softness of her skin, and squeezed her hand for a moment. She squeezed back, but kept her eyes closed. The signal.
To Be Worn
She wanted to be worn. Worn down, lovingly, In the way that can only be Accomplished over eons of use, In the manner of his favourite blazer. Worn till the elbows are shiny. She didn’t want to be worn out, But rather, worn over, Like a worrying stone kept In close reach, in the lefthand pocket Caressed when needed. And like the natural erosion— Stone smoothed by rushing river— She wanted him to be as constant: As unceasingly adoring and indifferent. She was vexed by her own mutability. Her kitelike flitting— Fearing she’d fly Before his hands and words Had fully bound her; Before he could discover her pockets And buttons. But she took comfort, In finding he was her tether. She might fly But his heartstrings kept her close.