--painting by Chris Brodahl at the Seattle Art Museum
Legs bent over the chair,
her pants wrinkle as she moves
rippling
My face tilts back and I close my eyes;
she bends her fingers over the table
like she’s playing piano.
Images cross over and I can’t keep track,
lost in eyes pasted over fingers
lips glued onto hairlines.
And still she moves,
staying silent but shifting
rippling
I had a dream the other night
of a farmland in grayscale,
black and white movies in my head.
My mother in her pink cotton nightdress;
bluebirds mocking me from their roost in a tree
And still this silent farmhouse, soft in its slumber.
But I can’t move when I’m asleep,
and she can’t move when she’s awake
We’re perfect in each other’s hands
I wait until her eyes are closed
and then I kiss her, her eyelids fluttering
rippling, as if to say hello.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
--painting by Chris Brodahl at the Seattle Art Museum
Legs bent over the chair,
her pants wrinkle as she moves
rippling
My face tilts back and I close my eyes;
she bends her fingers over the table
like she’s playing piano.
Images cross over and I can’t keep track,
lost in eyes pasted over fingers
lips glued onto hairlines.
And still she moves,
staying silent but shifting
rippling
I had a dream the other night
of a farmland in grayscale,
black and white movies in my head.
My mother in her pink cotton nightdress;
bluebirds mocking me from their roost in a tree
And still this silent farmhouse, soft in its slumber.
But I can’t move when I’m asleep,
and she can’t move when she’s awake
We’re perfect in each other’s hands
I wait until her eyes are closed
and then I kiss her, her eyelids fluttering
rippling, as if to say hello.
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