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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3770 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Christina’s World Laurie Byro Helga called to tell me he’d been painting her again secretly, without his wife’s knowing. They meet in the potting shed, spiders too busy spinning to notice her hair tangled by Nordic wind. He had his fingers in me so many times it’s a wonder I didn’t sprout hands that could paint down there. I’m long past blushing— old women don’t blush, they curse or spit. He calls me his crone-goddess threatens to paint me in my decay with no crickets urging us on, taunting me to climb the hill. Every blade of grass itched while I lay sprawled in that position. Stillness, even if you are a body of water is as difficult as motion. He and I were always at odds with movement and absence. What’s left out speaks as loudly as what remains. What remains for me are those jack-a-lanterns he carved and left throughout the house. Mouths gaping broken teeth when he carried me up the wooden stairs to his studio. Hours before on the pond, we let the boat drift. We needed nothing, not water, sun nor bread. Now, we drift in and out of the breath of each other. Candles flicker and drip, Shadow-mice scurry into corners while he dips his brush into tempura. Candles burning down as we drip and sigh. |
