|11.2 (Winter 2007)||The 2River View|
For months, I painted blue.
I painted until I was drunk with blue,
until lines grew thick, like innuendoes—
not skulls, but the shadows of skulls
in desert's harsh light. I was painting
in the place of making and unmaking—
everything spilled open—tugging loose,
breaking the dry river stones until
their geode hearts bled. I heard the jay cry
thief, thief, marking the air.
In the silence after, I could almost trace
the sound back to the beginning,
to blue lines liquid with light, I named
Canyon. Sediment. Layers of Rock.
The Matador's Daughter
won't eat meat
says red is a sound
not a color
that blossoms into fruit
when she runs
headlong through the streets
when she peels them
with her fingers