Watch where you point that thing

Her body presents itself, the product of a life that isn't organized around obsessively, insecurely presenting a body concentrated so heavily in the top layer that it slithers off in dark moments alone. She is anchored to her chair, planted on the grass in front of the fake backdrop.

But she doesn't look like she's inhabiting anything from the neck down. The body sits there, imponderable. What is it to her?

The answer's in the gun. Her body is in the gun, resting on her knees. She's playing a trick on us. She's pretending that she isn't there, that she's no threat; but that body is powerful. It can point to other bodies and hurt them. She doesn't even need to grip the gun very tightly. It can dangle down, slightly, romantically, barely restrained from slipping down, a sly, slick message. Look at her innocent face.

This is called women's ventriloquism of power.

God help me if someone ever loved me for sending my body into other objects, like my cooking, or a perfectly clean house, or the top layer of muscle, or accomplishments, or lists of summits trashed, or my writing. God help me if someone ever loved me for polishing my body down into a layer of its meaning.

Love me for my gun, my cooking pot, my words and my insight, all shot, cooked, written and penetrated into my particular set of gut and muscle.

Give me a body that can stay planted and recieve.