Nineteen forty four: A broad shoulder silhouette in the milkwhite skyscape. Winged coy mortality whispers lovewords to his temple touches fire to his inner thigh and he pushes her aside and says Maybe tomorrow, I'm working late tonight.
And he is cold and american but he tells himself He is Cold! and American! And even in the sandbag eyelid opal gray morning when his skylegs shake he is cold and American and his copper girl's thrilling reproach cannot warm him red until he unzips his vest and invites her in.
but in forty nine he is twenty seven and American. in forty nine, to be American is to have no skylegs. but baby death writes him letters while jean marie in her cap-sleeves looks pretty at his side. and he likes jean marie, he tells himself he likes her better. she is pretty and she is sturdy. she can make love without leaving burn marks.
but he wears slippers and housecoats and he has no skylegs. and jean's cap-sleeves show no skin. fire hurt to touch but at least she let him.
and so twenty seven and scared, he reads baby death's neat tiny scrawl and feels her breath on his earlobe and winged coy