|Figure Eight, Franz Kline (via Magpie Tales)|
'Tell me what you see,' she says as we lay in bed, naked in the heat.
'Black. Black on black on black.'
It's how i put myself under. Layer on layer, drawn over each other in deep wet paint, keeping out all the thoughts that creep into the night.
'How about you?'
'Bright Jamaican colors,' she answers.
Fingering the soft sheets beneath us, I smile, a smile she cannot see in the shadows. A smile at the chaos of the infinite, a figure eight laid on its side, opposite ends meeting in the middle, intimate. The symbol of double joy. With no need to be the same to experience it.
A kid from earlier in the day, at the Pump N'Serve, bursts in the door. Bullet shells piercing his ears gather moonlight in a glint beneath his wild long hair. Wife beater and jeans, his eyes move down the line waiting at the cash register.
Finding her pulse with my lips, I close my eyes once more.
He asks, 'Where are the diapers?'
And I begin to paint him black,
written for Magpie Tales