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These things of her
when she walks, daffodils surf in her wake. when she toasts bread, it says “you betcha” with a whole wheat enthusiasm. when she washes her hair, the drops hang on like lint to an old shirt, and I can hear their cry when they loose their grasp. when she cleans, her body cries to be nude, but to be so her clothes pay the price. when she lies, its done with such an artistry that my pain is only a part of her painting. if I were to paint her, she would sit in the noonday sun, and small pearls would dot her brow, and contentment would be worn in a long-sleeve cotton shirt, partially unbuttoned, her hair would be combed by a gentle breeze and her smile would not say ‘I can’t help it’ or ‘I’m sorry’ anymore. she would not have on that golden band, for it felt the touch of another man’s hand. nothing more, she said, happened. did he run his fingers through your hair, did he kiss the tears from your cheeks? did he notice how you tilt your head when you wash the dishes, how your tongue plays on your lips when you speak?
watercolor, like my dreams, washes away, and I can no longer imagine how it looked, or what it meant.
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