There were tables of shining blond wood
in the restaurant in my neighborhood
where I took him on a dare.
Stiff white napkins,
too many glasses, too many forks
HIs chair had one short leg.
He splayed his fingers wide on
the white wall beside him. They appeared
more deep-sea blue than black.
He grinned. "See? That's you and me."
I laughed. The room hushed.
He held his hand there and pressed,
as if he might leave a mark like a bruise
when he withdrew.
I watched his eyes jump from this to that—
the lacquered card in his other hand,
the silver, the door, my lips,
the recessed corners of the room.
I felt the pressure of his knee against mine.
We never ate. We left that place.
We walked through streets of pumpkin orange—
it was Halloween—fastidious
red brick; one zigzag of neon
yellow. Victorian blue on blue.
This was my house. We went in.
This is the part where it all silks down
and the candles melt and the space
heater groan the phone rings twice
the fridge hums and stops and
hums again
there's probably music—saxophone
(grover washington jr—it 1976) it's raining
the neighbor's dog is barking it's raining
I'm counting
one two three why am I counting?
my eyes are closed
there's no silk no melting
there's one word that cuts like a knife
four five six
and this is the part
where the rain this is the zigzag
yellow part the blue on blue with the rain
coming down everywhere all at once
as if he drummed it down comes slushing
through the gutters down ruining
the perfect ripe the sweet round pumpkins
with their cockeyed grins when
the moon suddenly pops out
and I see everything
I can see everything now
even the rain itself
because there's both the moon and the rain
the moon lighting up the rain
and the moon is calling out commands
it's about the pills it's about
the tiny liquid
the phone rings twice and twice
and now he's pointing at me
—is this how a knife looks?—
to cut triangle eyes and the jigsaw teeth
In that case I get to shine inside
I get to glow I really want that light to stream
from where he carves me
But no—
It's just a pencil or a pen or
a wand or a stick and it has nothing to do with me
it's part of the Dream Time,
Aboriginal Magic, where you pinch
your own arm and your brother flinches
or you point the stick and your enemy drops
to the desert floor.
Now he's an owl
I care for the feathers, the hard-shell beak,
the elegant clawed feet,
draw out the long slow whooo of surrender
then
thunder then something like dawn.
When he comes scratching
again and again on my blue door
I'm gone
I've leaked out
I'm the panther
the mutant
the stain on the bedroom floor
