A rich man’s body is like a premium cotton pillow, white and soft and blank. ‘’Ours’’ is different. My father’s spine was a knotted rope, the kind that women use in villages to pull water from wells; the clavicle curved around his neck in high relief, like a dog’s collar; cuts and nicks and scars, like little whip marks in his flesh, ran down his chest and waist, reaching down below his hip bones into his buttocks. The story of a poor man’s life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.
esta dema s decirte que a esta altura no creo en predicadores ni en generales ni en las nalgas de miss universo ni en el arrepentimiento de los verdugos ni en el catecismo del confort ni en el flaco perdo n de dios. It's not useless to tell you that, at this stage, I don't believe in preachers or generals or in Miss Universe's buttocks or in the executioner's repentance or in the catechism of comfort or in God's slim forgiving.
Woman is [...] finally screwing and your groin and buttocks and thighs ache like hell and you're all wet and maybe bloody and it wasn't like a Hollywood movie at all but jesus at least you're not a virgin any more but is this what it's all about? And meanwhile he's asking, "Did you come?"robin morgan