Fletch Won

“Wow!”

“These bugs are gettin’ to me.”

“Heck with the bugs. Listen to this.”

Sitting on the beach in her swimsuit, Barbara Ralton was scratching her elbow with one hand and her back with the other. “Fletch, the bugs really take over the beach when the sun gets this low.”

“Appropriate for what you’re about to hear. Listen.” His back propped against her beach bag, Fletch read:

Young flesh,

taut skin,

tight over muscle,

smooth over joints,

Revealed

Realized

Explored

Exploited

Felt

Most perfectly

Reviled

Revolted

Explained

Exploded

Sharp

Hard

Shining

Steel

in a blade

draws across the flesh.

Blood bubbles, then

mimics the slit,

becomes a line of blood;

finding its own way, it

pours down the skin,

thick, red fluid

flowing over the soft

rose pink of skin.

Touch your tongue to the blood.

Bathe your lips in it

Suck it through your teeth.

Let your eyes see above the slash

the skin draining, turning white,

whiter next the blood, and

watch the palpitations as

skin

reverberates with the ever-quickening

heart rhythm urging

out the blood to air, to

redness, to

flow.

What penetrates more

perfectly the warmth of flesh

than the coolness of steel?

in truth,

were they not just

made for each other?

Barbara, bugs on her, was no longer scratching. She said, “That’s sick.”

“Pretty sharp,” Fletch said.

In the red of the setting sun, she shuddered. “Punk.”

Fletch ran his fingernail along her calf. “But do you get the point?”

“A little lacking in metaphor,” she said.

“But consider the irony.”

“Weird!” She moved the book in Fletch’s hand to see the cover. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s a poem by Tom Farliegh called The Knife, The Blood.”

“That’s poetry? Not exactly ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…’ ”

“I guess it’s called the Poetry of Violence. Tom Farliegh is its inventor, or chief current practitioner, or something.”

“Where did you get it, a motorcyclists’ convention?”

“Tom Farliegh may or may not be Donald Habeck’s son-in-law.”

“For a son-in-law I’d rather Attila the Hun.”

Fletch rolled onto his stomach. “It is sentimental, of course.”

“I prefer Browning.”

“At least he gives flesh and a knife their values.”

“Oh, yeah. He does that. And why, Irwin, are you carrying around a book of poetry by Habeck’s son-in-law the night that Habeck is murdered?”

Even facing away from the sun, Fletch squinted. “Don’t you find it interesting?”

“Fascinating!” she said falsely. “Is the whole book like that?”

“I’ll read you another.” He reached for it in the sand.

“Not before supper, thank you.” She stood up. “Flies and satanic poems. Did you bring anything for supper?”

“Yeah,” Fletch answered. “There are some pretzels in the car.”

“Great. I could tell you stopped somewhere on your way home. You arrived in nothing but swimming trunks.”

“I know how to prepare pretzels.”

“Come on. I brought lamb chops. I’ll show you how to prepare them.”

“I’m going to jump in the ocean.” Fletch began to get up slowly. “Wash the sand off.”

“You can tell me all about your new assignment,” Barbara said, beach bag under her arm like a football. “The one that has nothing to do with people getting bullets in the head.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Fletch said absently.

in truth,

were they not just

made for each other?.