01

Painting by numbers: an internal dialog over a period of days

One becomes two.

These feelings are omnipresent like second cousins — strangely many years older than we are — visiting from Oaklahoma.

When I walk, barefoot, out of the bathroom, there they are — sprawled out across the living room floor.
And when they announce that they’re going out for an entire day — to Alcatraz, or Sausalito (Hooray!) — when I step out of the office to get a drink of water… there they are in the kitchen.
Upon my arrival they suddenly stop talking and look at me. Smiling as if they never had any plans to go anywhere. When are they leaving again?

Two become three.

I catch a glimpse of your opinion
Which deeply confuses me. Not because it is a surprise
but because it is unchaperoned.
Is this evidence that you may not actually read my words,
or listen to me with care and attention?
I at once both injured and informed.
Relieved and concerned.

I can feel the agony of never really knowing what’s being said
because the trivial response rises up like a troop of air horns in a contest of catamarans.
The twin hulls glide through an ocean much too cold so swim in
We snap the locks of the trapese lines tightly, close our eyes and lean out into the wind.
We can not hear.
We can not see.

Three becomes four.

There is an unhappy event with a terra cotta floor
and I remember my childhood while I almost chew the tortilla before swallowing.
Then we are screaming in the kitchen
desperate to insult and tease each other over the the blaring little radio by the sink.
I am celebrating.
Some work is done.

Four becomes five.

I wake up with tears streaming down my face and an erection.
I am sunburned
from meeting drowning men
who seem to only want to describe how it feels to surrender
and at last draw salt water into their lungs
before they close their eyes and go to sleep.

The emergency supplies I brought with me:
Six inflatable rafts
A small bottle of water
Waterproof matches
Half a pack of cigarettes
and a box of Underdog band-aids
are useless.

I am an angel, a witness, a priest
there is nothing I can do.
Death is sensual, intoxicating,
irresistible.

Five becomes six.

And I hear footsteps in the grass.
I turn to look, twice, because I know it’s you. Come to surprise me. Come to wrap your arms around me and cover my face with kisses.
I stand with calm defiance in doorways to greet you.
And while the sun is so bright, and I can smell the sea in the air
I swear to Christ I have never seen this woman’s face before in my life.

Each one of us experiences something so unique
perhaps because we are each such dazzling filters for the world.
Some seem to capture every moment. Lifted
or smothered by the act of accumulation itself.
Others bite down hard like a nurse shark in late winter.

Some slip past the billboards
out onto the tracks
buried in snow, or boiled in steam
stretching outward
beyond
to destinations we can only imagine in our dreams.

Perhaps we are thoughtlessly draped in the finest of cloth
elegantly resting in picture perfect moments of leisure.

He leans forward a little and asks “What?” from behind his sunglasses.

She turns her head slightly, making a series of faces.
Why did you wake me?
What is that smell?
and says “Nothing” with a smile.

Perhaps we are naked
collapsed beneath the sun
sand sticking to our shoulders, the light in our eyes
dancing in our hair.

Six becomes seven.

I don’t know what else to do
can you imagine that this tantruming, this retreat
this lashing out is forgotten?

No, it is misted with rose water, pressed and then folded
set lightly aside
to be arranged in order of hue
Until there is nothing less than a rainbow of you
all around me (as if the ghosts
of your touch
were not enough)

We have thoughtlessly become a crowd
but I am not cowed
Rather,
I am stunned (for
now.)
and even before this concussion
even begins to slow its swirling
I am up and running
screaming at the moon
singing to the sun.