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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3986 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Lace Doorways Steve Williams Before your feathered tendrils touched, I would look past my closeted wedding dress, taffeta arms folded in its plastic coffin. Some rooms in my house are containers for suffocating lace. I pass by those embalmed spaces, eyes fixed forward. My home office is wood and fabric, iron sculptures, impressionist prints, a view of pacific sunsets. Your art came to my computer here. I read your words, drift through a doorway of forgetfulness, into skeins of lace. On one wall, I pushpin your thoughts. We had lunch once. I wished then that we had kissed. You gave me an awkward hug, I walked away hiding in sunglasses. I call you from my bed, my husband gone, I’m in silk surrounded by cushy stuffed animals. You pause, ask again about my dead father. He was a very bad person. I said I was enthralled with you. No, you said, you are infatuated with your new room your new closet. You’ve forgotten they were always in your house. I sit on the floor, breathe in the white frill, see an empty room. As I close the door, my eye catches your wallpaper, I ease away, forgetting. |
