Her Stress Rough Draft #5

The type of stress and strain that develops in human structures…depends on the nature of
the material, type of load that is applied, the point of application of the load, direction,
magnitude of the load, and the rate and duration of the loading. When a structure can no
longer support a load, the structure is said to have failed.
                           -From Norkin and Levangie’s Joint Structure and Function, 3rd edition

She starts to tell me the story, more cautiously this time.
There’s a tension pulling in her face
that’s hard to describe, a taught latex mask,
a twitching as if her very skin wants to speak:

The stars were out that night, a heavy curtain
coming down on both of them.
His young veins pumping with gusto,
and she had long legs and a long neck
as fragile as a swan. Her tiny structure
a mess of bones and beauty and skin
and little girl joy all strung together by tissue paper,
phonebook-doodles, and paper clips.

It was dark and he was holding one arm behind his back
like a magician. The anticipation crawled up her legs
into her smile. He got out his anvil and asked her to lay down on it.
She was shy at first, but even though the metal was cold
it would soon heat up. It was easier to shape her that way.

His voice a gentle vice cranked and twisted,
she became addicted to the pressure.
He whispered like a meteor ripping
through her atmosphere. His hands
she wanted to hold her, with his metaled fingers.

He asked her out again, this time with a coil
that he would latch around her finger
and twist the crank enough times to securely fasten it.
She was secured.

She could only take so much.
Depending on the nature of the material,
and the type of load.

Then the internal pressure a chaotic
combustion engine of wild beasts, clawed
creatures, of things pulling and prying,
gears bending, grabbing and gnawing, rods
spraining, tugging, her voice a delicious vice,
her voice with its long finger licking
its lips poking and prodding—

The structure is said to have failed.
But then I hear her in the other room,
her fingers minute dancers bending
to the keys creating a penetrating melody,
her voice, a strong current rising like the sun
beyond the fortress of the earth, a rushing astral river
rushing to the one who was poked, prodded, loaded, and deformed.

And then she stops. Her eyes are closed.
Her head droops. She’s sleeping.