The East Village

Carrie Etter

He arcs back, supplicating spine. If the dry grass and warm day, if
sight and touch alone sufficed. She walks to mass every morning,
anticipating the small, crisp wafer on her tongue, sticking to the
roof of her mouth, using her tongue to dissolve it there. Soon lunch
will be served up to and including the sixtieth person in line. The
warmth producing languor in his limbs. He cannot know her expectation,
clamor, security, breath. She waves him in, blithely her fingers. He
passes her toward.