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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3594 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Last Night with Andre Laurie Byro Last night with Andre I rode the arch of his eyebrow like a dove. We sat outside 10 Railroad Avenue, spoke quietly about changing our lives. He wants to go back to Chile and teach the Indians how to farm. How many nights have I drowned in the waves of a fast man’s body. Andre is the raft that pulls me back. We toss crusts of yeasty bread to curious birds. He rubs the back of my hand over and over like a stone the water smoothes in a river. Andre has just broken up with a model. He spent months debating the Spring collection, rhe summer line from Milano. With empty eyes, he tells me he loves this one. He just doesn’t have a feel for fashion. I watch his pupils dilate and flare when he speaks of her. Their bodies grapple and shimmy like skaters when he tosses her in the air, the sharpness of her blade cuts the space between them. Abruptly, he changes the subject, his pupils dark and sooty wicks. I have no advice for a man I love who keeps coming back to me with stories about a world I barely recognize. He lights the candle at our table, I speak of leaving my country. He kisses the inside of my palm and tells me about the tattoos that models wear as a shield against their nakedness. Katarina has an elaborate Celtic knot I the small of her back, a rosebud over the bud of her left nipple. Tonight, in the dark, we will lie in the shadows of hemlocks that are dying. Their branches, empty of needles. Pine trees that have survived this blight will tuck our bodies in with rich, exotic pine. Andre is more familiar with the fragrance of cypress. He will run his tongue along the bones of my spine, noting my lack of adornment. I have thought about getting a tattoo. I have thought about leaving for Chile. I go back to sitting outside this café, that restaurant. His thumbs worry my collarbone, the wings of my shoulders. After we feed the doves, I disappear into the tunnel of his pupils, hammer myself against the doors of his eyes. Tonight I will leave the bedroom windows open. We will feel the breath of the dying trees. We can never be sure if the distant light of the stars is real or just a reflection against glass. We will bruise ourselves trying to break free to the outside. |
