Bring your colored oils
for your charcoal lines
to edge them with blue
and dust them in yellow. I ask
are your bearings failing
in this blighted place?
Buttons for numbers 6 and 13
taunt in the elevator.
The space is tight, obscure
like a dumbwaiter’s closet,
Secretly hoping she will be there;
to help this breathing along,
making this standing up right
now to be possible.
I stand here after
brittle and rainless years,
trembling with key in hand,
and daunted, but I unlatch it.
The empty room is hollow,
the dresser warped under the opaque window.
A sickly, mundane, vacant painting
like a Leningrad ghost
or the iron banks of the Damvobita,
hangs as weeping fog.
I close my eyes while the emptiness
drifts around my spine like mullet shells,
the seeds gone.
She is in a red dress,
shades of tanager and crimson,
a thin muslin silk with small straps,
one fallen from the shoulder,
and black heeled shoes she’s slipping off,
a silver pin,
and her hair gently raining over lily neck.
My steps echo in the wooden space;
my bones sunken, my hands askew.
We all have all of us been chipped away at,
become a sort of detritus of wounds,
in a patchwork of holes, pleasures
routines, those silver linings,
and splintered dreams,
among all the rest.
It is these I try to paint over,
over the cracked threads, the wooden dead,
looking for the timeless, endless
rumored yellow of summer’s afternoon.
Buy here the blue shifts only
to gray and my throat digs its own
lump, a fear in the hollow.
The crimson, the golden locks, her collarbone…
They are gone.
The curtains are drawn;
their cord slack, dangling.
I tug with my hands
pull at the thick, dusty folds,
all those dreams let slip,
those tears, our fingertips,
only to find the window dark.
My heart, my heart.
About this entry
You’re currently reading “Door 2012,” an entry on Santiagodeco
- October 6, 2010 / 1:43 pm
- my poetry