In the Story of Adultery that Doesn’t Happen

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2 min

There is a painting in the hotel lobby of trees by a river.
In the river, a reflection of something red—shape
disturbed by currents—hot color smeared across
an unwalkable pathway. This might suggest that
the sky is burning while cool tones drown the seeable
world. I keep my eyes on the painting. There is
a sense of movement in its stillness. Call it art—this
distraction from the possibility of your lips against
my saying no. Contrast of tones. I want to rub green
spring beneath your skin (dry shore) with my tongue
(damp rag)—would like to hang you on a wall (crucifix)—
pretend this is my home of five thousand rooms. Perhaps
those are not branches, but a tangle of limbs. Perhaps
those are not leaves, but silk scarves tethering hips
to the vanishing point. It’s all (over)lap. Perspective. Inside.
A world. A frame. A hotel. Outside. A block framed
by four streets. An exit unto an entrance. Repeating. Yes.
This is a mistake, I say. Logic. Red merely marks
the presence of a bird and you are not a choice I can make—
though I would love to cup fire from this stream of
brush strokes—drink feathers—become flight—rise from
the street to be possibility. Beyond a hotel canvas—
red mark. Might be hell. But then. Might be song in midair.
 
 
…………………………………………………………………………………………..………. home
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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