Her cheeks are Cardinal virtue in flame-like red,
but I don’t care for anything but her eyes,
liquid visages of the phantom of our grave.
I see a seed of it there
like a rhinestone’s cheap glimmer,
a 16th note of our tongues and teeth,
clacking together.
I’m grounded in the mocha of her curves
like lightening to the earth.
Her fedora a buoy
in a pool of crested sheets.
Blue writing seeps into paper
to match the color of the couch
I sink into like heels
on softened earth.
The alto above me sings
to match the song of a macaw,
her melody a shade
of their vibrancy.
As her aria trickles
down to me,
I fade into rhythms
of snare drums
and a tap dancer’s feet.
The lights are
off in church.
We sit next
to white candles
by the priest,
behind the altar.
He says something
of the Word
that I don’t hear
because he is sitting
there, adjacent the gate.
I daydream of more
than his blue eyes.
An appropriate image
for Sunday Mass.
love this. i'm always captured by your metaphors. beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThere is one last one to this. I just finished it last night.
ReplyDeleteThe paper is a purer white
than the snow that glistens
on the ground outside.
I write a letter
to her, to let
her know how I feel.
Its postscript is a blotch,
a tear worth more
than all my words.