DeFalla
Dominos
The
jagged outlines of her silhouette, it would appear on
each building, momentarily ducking down each narrow alley
only to reappear on the next.
The
jagged outlines as projected by the light of a Pierrot
moon as she runs down the narrow cobblestone street.
It
was coming down and, no, I had not noticed. The sound
of her heels echoing, going down each alley her shadow
refused.
Can
we get that sound back?
The
flamenco band that was playing Peppe’s right before
she said “We must talk”. Can we get that melody,
that sound back?
The
rain, her tears, the still secret paper being torn.
Ah,
my conception of you, the blues. I was wrong on both accounts.
It had all been on her mind longer than she would admit
to. I got a brief glimpse several nights before. A cheap
red and not enough food. Again, her dream of the beast
on the path who devoured her every Valentine’s day.
Coco,
don’t lay there looking so sad, lips abused by kisses.
Prego,
no bacci labria.
Go
back to sleep, there is at least a year until you are
eaten again.
Now,
she runs through the narrow streets, a cobblestone path
through a city that never abandoned the hour of the tears.
Those heels, she stumbles. A tragic misstep on the road
to desire.
She
is on her knees by the fountain, under the one working
light put there to cause the death of shadows.
Kiss
me.
Now,
with her heart broken and the anger at its core, she has
never looked so beautiful. In this newfound radiance,
she almost won.
I
want a style, but not a pattern. I will leave her alone.
I
spend the first few days painting a still life of the
dominos, there on the table, exactly as we had left them
our last game.
