He carves vulnerability onto his cheeks
with thorough, quick fingers-
she mistook him for
The drowning begins-
her eyes flash like mirrors against night’s canvas,
easel of late September.
His eyebrows frame a delicate painting, and she drops
heavy lids over the truth, traps it in her pupils.
Her friend, the girl with matchstick hair,
has skin lit by candles, burnt by flames,
as her hands search
melting wax for a face to believe in.
A face that burns red, a face easily blinked away into darkness
after striking her repeatedly against the matchbox, using her to burn away his past.
The boy who promised fine brushstrokes
never offered up a handle.
He wishes seven years of turmoil
as he gazes upon her glass for the last time.
These are not tears, she thinks, this is water.
For I have found myself a part of this river’s current,
I have found myself at the bottom
of some constellation’s integral thread;
and I surge through a woven sky, while gasping for air-
and I surge through a crowding winter,
waves of distorted irises, black windows
behind overlooked lamplight.
These are not tears,
and my cheeks remain un-crumbled architecture-
he has his cave paintings
those marks he bears as his cross.
Contributor: Marina Kovacs-McCaney
Copyright © 2013 Marina Kovacs-McCaney. All Rights Reserved.