A flock of nuns huddling backward through the street, shaking like birds in the wind so that the shiver ripples through them from rear to front cooling their skin beneath their damp habits, chanting Latin in reverse softly to themselves so that the words begin with the sweet whisper of sibilant esses and end in the loud blunt edges of beginnings. They round the corner cackling with the sound smooth wooden rosary beads against the violent zenith of unrepentant traffic running reverse through puddled up intersections and traffic lights that flash green, amber, red. Incense issues into them, the smell of old panties or dirty socks retreating under the rippling hoops of their habits up into the weak corners of aging armpits and stale unused vaginas. The huddle of nuns disappears splashing around a corner, the first last and the last first, and for a moment there is only the brightness of a falling sun reflected from the chrome of a well shined bumper still wet from the rain that washed it. But it is only a moment. The flash retreats; a cold flower folding inward. Clouds cover the sky from either horizon where moments ago they might have fled, coming together as hands fold in prayer. As the first of the nuns slips past the corner for the second time the rain picks itself up from the puddles and rushes into the sky as spirits might answer golden trumpets. The rain slides up the bumper of the car leaving a trail of detritus behind it, rising up over the headlights and windshield, purifying itself as it makes its way back into the air and diffuses itself like the fingers of an opening hand into the complex structure of the cloud. The skin and the clothes of the couple who have been standing here all the while continue to dry. They do not move except to shake now and again as though cold, beginning violently and ending softly, only a reminder of the violent shaking that seemed to start off. He is kneeling at her waist each hand on each hip staring at her stomach as though trying to find something she swallowed, and she is standing in a pink sun dress made of fabric painted with flowers, her arms crossed across her body as though anticipating the rain that stopped rising and seems less and less immanent as the moment moves further away. As the sun sucks under the east, its weak glow receding from the screen of clouds as though a liquid absorbed into the absolute black of the horizon, he withdraws his arms and stands leans in toward her slowly as though reluctant to touch her and their mouths meet as if parting, kissing backward, lips chasing each other all over their faces and then withdraws, eyes still on hers until they drop to his feet as if looking for an answer to a question that might already have been asked but won\'t be until her tongue can unfashion the words. Behind them a flock of nuns hustles by in reverse, black white black white black trying to reach the door of the conservatory before the dark grows completely across the sky.
i like it when i find two words touching that i have never seen touching before, and it sparks that feeling that you got when you were a child and you would look around you at all the people that were walking past, and you would get great chills about being alive. it isn't that it's such a beautiful thing, it's just that it's new and it needs to be marvelled at simply for the breathtaking existence of the thing. i like that you had nuns and stale vaginas, and curious, shaking, young love in the same short passage. it was sweet and alive.