Washerwoman

On the other side of the glass, the night asserts its authority, but we are inside, suspended by spirits, and preserved in a healthful light that fills the room and shines out through large windows to the edge of the clearing Twigs crack like whips as a woman emerges from the forest. She steps forth, bearing a dark cylinder; it stands in prominent contrast to her nudity as she moves into the light The room is crowded, but I’m the only one watching as she takes the cylinder into her mouth. She smashes the window with that object. It lands at my feet—a bar of black soap, rigid and wet. The party stands transfixed as she crawls through the broken glass. The Light grows dim... ...and with her mouth full of lather she announces “I come from the City of Hair beyond the Wrinkled Mountain and I Will not rest until I’ve washed every penis in this room.”