Friday, August 05, 2005

even underlining Nabokov when I am not in love, in love

Picture me rising, yellow light in the sink. My curls hold water. They are fire, they are hay. Picture me reading poems in a fan, spread out on the table like my future was once. Picture me in denim. Picture me in red, a tank top etched with roses, washing dishes, cutting lemons, letting olive oil fall onto my fingers. I find a lock for the wheel. I fit a key in the mouth.

Giving me city bike instructions, he says: operate under the assumption that the world is out to kill you.

I said: I am already under that assumption.

Picture me riding into the world and its dangers. My basket of books. My pocket of fortunes. My collarbone. My knee. My skin turns like a lily. My moving bruises fade from gray-like to lilac.

Picture me shaving, the bowl and the soap, the water, the razor. Here, I give you such tenderness.