my Venus in satin -------------------------------------------- Sarah Pearsall I used to say, "Venus ain't got nothing on you, baby." She would smile that pitiful sweet smile that said "thank you," but she would doubt me with her eyes. I remember, at two in the morning she would get writers' block and we would dance, I in my plaid boxers and she in my paisley ones. I would sing slave spirituals to her because she said she was slave to an art that imprisoned her soul. She would tell me that if reincarnation really happened, she hoped to come back with a voice like a kitten's purr. It was her own way of saying that she hoped I came back with a voice less like a kitten's claws. I still sang.    Some mornings she would try cooking. I would walk into the kitchen to find her crying over burnt bacon or scrambled eggs and shells. I would eat it anyway and imagine I could taste her tears. She had a stack of magazines that I promised not to throw away because she would draw the models and find stories in their faces. I thought there were more stories in her own face. I never understood why her toes were always painted but her fingernails were always bare and gnawed. She said the little white spots were bruises and she wondered if the bruises on our souls were white like our fingernails or blue like our bodies. Sometimes, she wondered if we had souls. I always shrugged and wondered quietly while she mused for the whole world to hear. She thought writing was like painting and so she bought some paintbrushes. She had a book of half-splashed faces and splotches of un-landscaped green. She never let me see those pictures because they were like her face when she had been crying. She was beautiful.    But now, an ugliness has crept into her face and I can't find my Venus. Her eternal bed is lined in satin and she hates satin. She used to say satin was for women whose skin wasn't soft enough on it's own. If she ever needed satin, this is the time. Her skin isn't soft; it's a thick wax that I can't touch. It looks so thick that I'm afraid that if she has a soul it can't get out. I have my matches and the last thing I can do for her is melt that wax and free her soul. So, i'll tear out the satin, climb in and melt with her as I sing, "An' my soul an' your soul will meet in de day when I lay dis body down."