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Chalk |
Freshly laid in Kentucky,
wake up from the best Saturday night stupor of your life,
she sleeps curled against your side like her cat,
you drool into a pompon pillow,
dangle your arm down the side of the tall four poster bed.
The goose feather bedspread comforting the both of you
smells faintly of embers and Patchouli.
Gossamer sun strands permeate your youth and tranquility,
a haze hovers below spackled ceiling,
the cobweb in the corner dangles.
Grunt,
carefully extract yourself from her bedside,
she murmurs in her sleep,
pad softly down the hall,
scratch your ass cheek underneath inside-out boxer shorts,
all the smiley faces look inward.
Light the stove with a finger-length match,
use the flame for the first morning cigarette.
(Are you deaf?)
All her skillets are burnt grease.
Step on the cat bowl,
tepid water spills out unto the kitchen floor.
Reach for an ashtray,
cough,
cough again,
inhale as you arch your back in a satisfied stretch,
your stomach drawn tight beneath the outline of your ribcage.
(Do you miss that image?
Could you believe those thin days of yore?
Did they really exist?)
Study the handmade ashtray
that resembles a failed clay pot.
(What has happened?)
Become aware of sound,
bacon bubbles and pops saturated in virgin olive oil,
a bicycle rings outside,
you hear a weird thump against the bathroom wall,
you stop to listen,
a muffled lawnmower burps into life.
(A fleeting thought about your father,
what about your father?)
Scrape the Melba toast,
contemplate the black flecks mixed in with the scrambled eggs.
She still sleeps in the fetal position.
Pad softly to the living room,
switch off the aquarium bulb,
roll open the heavy drapes,
her cat jumps off the windowsill.
Your thick key ring
mars the femininity of the delicate coffee table,
your leather wallet and loose nickels intrude.
She painted marigolds on a picture frame
and on a light fixture by the front door
so you bought her a kid's color chalk set for her birthday
and she drew more ornate flowers on the oven window,
flowers which you have promptly smeared with your crotch
this morning during clumsy breakfast,
(Your father never prepared breakfast)
the tip of your dick smiles shyly
behind periwinkle kissed boxer flaps.
Now let's remember,
she was always dreaming of pastel fields of sorghum,
of a sloped meadow falling
to the edge of a damp grove of junipers,
she was always dreaming of knee-high alfalfa
and Easter dresses with matching bonnets
and a red-checkered blanket and a picnic,
dreaming of stacked forgotten stone walls
crumbling around abandoned farmsteads,
of the gust of cold air wafting up from empty wishing wells,
laughter echoes.
Now let's remember,
I don't want to stand exposed in this breathing space,
I want to steal her neighbor's newspaper,
forget about the colors yellow and baby blue.
I am night ink and shadow and charcoal.
I do not comprehend chalk.
I am most comfortable turning away
from the dwindling constellations,
ushered away by the glare of the high beams,
driving away to the rattle of the front grill,
gripping the steering wheel,
gnashing my teeth,
clattering radio blares.
copyright 2005
Angel Uriel
Perales |
