Your Mansion

By: Bethelihem Gebresilasie

You just let me turn the knob on your front tooth and I slid down your tongue. There was light in there which I didn’t expect. I look forward and realized you had lampshades on your tonsil stones. I found it endearing and slightly whimsical. I thought, “I should do the same thing.” I pressed one of your cavities that was blinking bright yellow, and waited for the elevator to arrive. It was comfortable, a cozy mansion, which feels like an oxymoron. I wanted to start at your lungs and hike to your intestines. Is it a weird tradition that I get to explore your eternal abode, the body that I will never know but will know better than most? Is that what marriage is?  Ultimately, no matter how close I get to your body, or in your body, I will never be close enough. I know the marriage counselor recommended this so that we truly know each other, but you’ve had this house longer than I’ve known you, and you’ve learned to hide your secrets in ventricles and caves you’ve craftedly obscured. The elevator arrives; it has pulsating veins, transparent, and mesmerizing. Your blood flows really fast I’ve noticed, and I make a note to tell your doctor. The elevator is slow, and has no buttons. I was confused, and it felt purposeful. You didn’t want to be known, and anyone who dares won’t be given directions. The doors pulse open and I see your anus. You want me out. A mansion is always cold, I shouldn’t have expected otherwise.


A version of this post originally appeared in “Tenacity” The Teller October 2019 Issue #7

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