a stroke is a boot. if you round it. if you, if you drag the top of your feet, velvet shoe, carpet red, woven line traced by a finger, hopping her shoulders at the top of her throat, a man face down on the couch as she tosses, her pillow, a skirt –
dust. crumbling sound. red cold face. her scrawl – on your skin, stylus precise – his paper crown toppling, his new hat falling back on the rocks. hair pushed out like the wings of a beard. he doesn’t know he’s a cartoon (he doesn’t know he’s ruining the vibe). tove doesn’t know either; just renders him behind her own back, rising, flick of his shoe like the neck of a match.
they distract me from my real work, she repeats – even as their bulbous heads fit into each other. her desire to be understood in her way. her cold breath. her bread burning. her feet bare down the stairs, cross the carpet, off the bed. it’s a self-portrait, she tells him of a brewing landscape. am i the rock, the fire or the storm? all of them, he says. (he makes the same joke later, limply, as she gessos over painted canvases.)
first scene again. feet louder. he sleeps. she tries to dance. she shakes her head. soft red promise of a carpet. she shakes her head. she shakes her head – hand on the forearm, the waist, kiss on the meat of the thumb, kiss up the wrist - open jacket, top hat, steady - toppled lamp - eager stems - boa crown tense in the feathers, want at the front of her eyes - her hurt, razor skinny, softened by a kiss like a plant underwater –
the sound of the ocean. the music leaves her.
the next yellow morning, she is awake on him. so in herself, knowing. the love is there and you will have to leave it. his big dumb blinks as she says vivica. (smoking girl, vivica called her, title of her own painting.)
(his eyes, the carpet, soft and red; vivica’s, standing up quickly.)
years later, dancing pulse. v’s eyes deep back again, night rivers. they still sleep together, light blue freckles in the morning, light blue kiss on her apex shoulder - no more, t says, and leaves. sweet truth from the side of her face. someone will bring a crunkling bag. someone will ask her, what is it called. for now: her father’s papers scatter, her life comes up behind her. the harsh relief of spring.
a stroke is a boot. if you round it. if you, if you drag the top of your feet, velvet shoe, carpet red, woven line traced by a finger, hopping her shoulders at the top of her throat, a man face down on the couch as she tosses, her pillow, a skirt –
dust. crumbling sound. red cold face. her scrawl – on your skin, stylus precise – his paper crown toppling, his new hat falling back on the rocks. hair pushed out like the wings of a beard. he doesn’t know he’s a cartoon (he doesn’t know he’s ruining the vibe). tove doesn’t know either; just renders him behind her own back, rising, flick of his shoe like the neck of a match.
they distract me from my real work, she repeats – even as their bulbous heads fit into each other. her desire to be understood in her way. her cold breath. her bread burning. her feet bare down the stairs, cross the carpet, off the bed. it’s a self-portrait, she tells him of a brewing landscape. am i the rock, the fire or the storm? all of them, he says. (he makes the same joke later, limply, as she gessos over painted canvases.)
first scene again. feet louder. he sleeps. she tries to dance. she shakes her head. soft red promise of a carpet. she shakes her head. she shakes her head – hand on the forearm, the waist, kiss on the meat of the thumb, kiss up the wrist - open jacket, top hat, steady - toppled lamp - eager stems - boa crown tense in the feathers, want at the front of her eyes - her hurt, razor skinny, softened by a kiss like a plant underwater –
the sound of the ocean. the music leaves her.
the next yellow morning, she is awake on him. so in herself, knowing. the love is there and you will have to leave it. his big dumb blinks as she says vivica. (smoking girl, vivica called her, title of her own painting.)
(his eyes, the carpet, soft and red; vivica’s, standing up quickly.)
years later, dancing pulse. v’s eyes deep back again, night rivers. they still sleep together, light blue freckles in the morning, light blue kiss on her apex shoulder - no more, t says, and leaves. sweet truth from the side of her face. someone will bring a crunkling bag. someone will ask her, what is it called. for now: her father’s papers scatter, her life comes up behind her. the harsh relief of spring.