Part I: The way God lives in each crevice of art:
The cracks in the courtyard of the Izzy, the blue room like a dip into the Ocean's briny love, the girl sketching while sat upon the courtyard walls -
Sketching faces -
Not mine, though
I am always the watcher, the observer-
Never the seen
My face, my body, my likeness
Never expressed thru pen to paper or brush to canvas or whatever
The girl at the museum with her red hair spilling and her slouchy black dress and how she curved the pen on the paper -
Part II: The warmth of the day, all round:
It was warm, far too warm for my tastes
Sweat clung to my skin like water to sand or sap to bark or me to any kind of affection -
And I thought about girls, and boys
How I felt when my arm brushed against the shoulder of boy next to me
Safe in a goopy kind of affection, thirsty for love.
The boy closed his eyes, held onto his bag, and breathed in the subway's shake, breathed in God and how He lives in each crevice of everything.
The twenty-first of July, 2017.
YOU ARE READING
honeysuckle: poems by colleen cosette goodman
Poesíahoneysuckles still bloom after dark. colleen cosette goodman © 2016-2018
