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1. Abigail, it is raining.
by Bob ArcaniaA jazz record plays in the other roomI dont know why I want
to tell you this. Your brother is sopping wet beneath the sheets that cling
to his skin. He is telling me about how you love,
how its like Van Gogh brushstrokes, so obvious and deliberate,
each lovestroke laying on top of the other, peeking through like new apple blossoms
in the rain, and he must be halfway to Brazil by now,
and my bed is neatly made,
Abigail.
He is sleeping and is not here; most likely on naval academy shore leave
with Chinese women off the coast. There is a fluidity to him, and so I always dream
of him in water, on lakes, as an ocean.
These times I wish you were here to sleep in the tiny caves his shape
has carved, has pooled in my mattress, only because your scent is like his
like blueberry sweets and orchid sweat. 04/30/2008 Author's Note:
Start of a series. See also:
2. a real fine parade, your sister and I
3. An array of maps
4. Vocalizing the Red Fox Siblings
5. correspondence
Posted on 04/30/2008
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania
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