<lesh's "her writers"> 2002-11-25.3:29 p.m. Her Writers Jenniffer Lesh Writers. They never take care of themselves, always showing up on her doorstep in too-tight dinner jackets, the soiled white cuffs of their shirts hiding bruised knuckles. ������������Oh, how he pounded on her door ������������one night, howling about Red Rose tea, ������������howling with his head thrown back, ������������his throat long, adam's apple ������������rocking under his skin like a boat, until ������������she let him stagger into her warm, bread-smelling ������������kitchen, so that he could stand by her stove. ������������Half a soaked manuscript fell from his loosening coat, ������������and scolding him, she stooped and stacked ������������the pages of his life, gathering them up ������������against her sagging breasts, feeling their wetness ������������like rainyday leaves. They never feed themselves and are incapable of the simplest household duties. They display the indigo of their veins and call it royal. ������������The poet was sick. All day, she picked ������������away at scabs on her inner arms, the last ������������of yesterday's burns, the scraps and scars, ������������licking her taut, starved lips, until the screen ������������door opened, and there stood the woman ������������with her hard hands and soft breasts, dust ������������motes framing her head like a halo, ������������bringing clean towels, bringing the outdoors in, ������������lifting the poet's sagging head, dabbing ������������at the cracked corners of her mouth, saying ������������Come home now, and you can be well. Their art aside, writers have no loyalty to anything besides pleasure and the easy path. Family and friendships are convenient trappings for holidays and tax season. ������������She paused and adjusted the strap ������������of her purse, glancing to check ������������her reflection against the fogged window. ������������There was a group of them inside the caf�; ������������it was raining. She would have liked to sip ������������coffee from a thick lipped white bowl ������������alongside her writers, but when she pressed ������������closer to the glass, they turned from her ������������smoothly, like a flock of birds in their black ������������clothes, closing against her, their eyes dark ������������with feigned ignorance. She had known ������������each of them during the most fetid hours: ������������the novelist, the poet junkie, ������������and all the wan-faced ones pretending ������������to study an unsigned painting on the wall. It is the natural order. Writers come to her just as stray cats appear in the doorways of old women; they come and take and go, and come again, or not. No matter. With one long sweep of her hard-bristled broom, the sick and soil follow her writers into the street. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad