over time

i have tuned

my eyes to see

(erroneously, maybe)

a subdued wash of color

seeping through wood

as a loaded metaphor

a symbol of my own

martyrdom

or emotional state..

he was not any different

the brushed alabaster

the wooden bed

the “yellow,

like fresh butter”

the contrived meaning

of his growing

affection

how else could i explain the

pulsating snap

of our spines ?

the impression on

a coat of wet

paint?

he is-

he was the bedroom in florida

i hung him in the hallway

and

i don’t think of him often

but great softness

is haunting

even when shuttered

and discounted.

 

– sheila c.