“For nowise, methinks, didst thou come hither on foot.” Odyssey 16.59
I’ve gone as far North as I can now and all the feathers
cling to the women’s bodies, all the echoes of handwriting scrawled
with intent on the canvas faces of humantide. I am not dreaming
up any such dark forces, intent on meaning, I am dreaming
of lunch and ladies cloaked in organza and bright jellyfish cloth—
the sequins scream into my heart and too, the red-roving of love
written on gesso’d taut. How can all these women walk on glass
giraffe feet? How can they strut into all the canvas’ blank spaces,
intent on not stepping onto the lines, killing their mothers?
Theirs is a world of games and loveliness and something like machines
guiding their motions. I am but a petty squab, a brushstroke
of darkness upon their porcelain cheeks. Look now, we are all laughing.
Look now, my heart grows feathers and flies past all the sunstained
buildings into impossible upward North. No turning back.