The monster hunter and I kiss so fast we don’t see the monster. We kiss before we can see each other kissing. “Is the monster blue?” I say, kissing his lips so hard that he has to see me, has to recognize the monster in me. “One of the monsters is blue,” he says, “and one of them isn’t. One of them has feet, and the other one has lips.” I’m laughing, we’re laughing. Now we’re in the same world, kissing each other so hard in the dream that his neck feels like a sea serpent rising from the deep. I’m on guard, but ready to be roped by the tendons in the old man’s neck.
“How old am I?” I say to my monster hunter. “Old and beautiful like me,” he says, “like all invisible animals are.” I can feel my wrinkles reaching toward him like fishing-lines in water. Can feel the monster in him rising from the salt of my skin. Later, I’ll be wringing my hands. Thoughts of capture will have taken up residence in the loch I swim in without him every day. “Help me,” I say, kissing him so hard that I can finally see him.
