By B. D. Lynch
Sometime last June, after she disappeared
into the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art
with her green notebook and brown glasses to
philosophize with a teenage soul about a topic she feels is damn near religious
I pressed open the gray glass doors and hobbled into the hall
to catch a glimpse of the exhibits-- violins rose from the end of the hall
like the smoke that drifted off the macaroni she cooked me yesterday
in the middle of the matchstick kitchen.
A small flock of big eyed city girls for the third time this week
were inching their way along the new paintings in the marble halls;
they're romantic to me, if you look at them right. But
she calls them racoons, their eyes surrounded in make-up rings
and they'll bite you when you stand too close.
At the end of the day, I walked into a thirty foot tall statue of Jesus Christ
hanging upside down by his toenails while a radio hidden somewhere
in the wall played the sounds of pencil droppings. Maybe this made me
sit down to a napkin. I folded it over to get rid of the coffee stain, but
I could still make out the Starbucks emblem. I wrote anyways:
Martyrs. On a June day, in the afternoon heat,
we kiss eyes with the city girls. And last night.
we stood outside the dining hall, her eyes threw me
down like dreams of seaweed.
ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');