11.2 (Winter 2007) | The 2River View Authors • Poems • PDF • Past Issues • 2River |
Georgia
For months, I painted blue.
I painted until I was drunk with blue,until lines grew thick, like innuendoes—
not skulls, but the shadows of skullsin desert's harsh light. I was painting
in the place of making and unmaking—everything spilled open—tugging loose,
breaking the dry river stones untiltheir geode hearts bled. I heard the jay cry
thief, thief, marking the air.In the silence after, I could almost trace
the sound back to the beginning,to blue lines liquid with light, I named
Canyon. Sediment. Layers of Rock.
The Matador's Daughter
won't eat meat
says red is a soundnot a color
that blossoms into fruitFlowers follow
when she runsheadlong through the streets
apples openwhen she peels them
with her fingers