Nixon was dead

July 2, 2012


1972

The suicide pacts. Were never spoken about. But you got to read the fine print when you were on acid. Richard Nixon was on TV. He swore to keep his hands off Cambodia. But I could feel his fingers under the table. Reaching for my genitals.

All those black faces. Glaring. Like guns. Ready to pop off. And Louise used to sit beside me. In ethics. She told me she hadn’t slept for weeks. That we owed a responsibility to take care of each other. And I don’t know why. I found it so difficult. To reply.

We marched on the bridges. Laughed over the river. Watched with suspicion. The police leaning against their vehicles. Paulette told me she was on the pill. In the middle of the night I sometimes felt like I was still seven years old.

We woke up. A couple of decades had passed. I don’t know what happened to Laura. Some of us had children. Love was no longer like vertigo. Nixon was dead. And we all had time to dance.

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