Sky
A slim woman stands in
a baby pool, no water.
She wears a wetsuit,
swim cap and in her left
hand grasps a pully looped
over the swing-set.
She mimics the front
crawl. A great blue
heron swoops low
over our silent
highway. An inflated
blue sofa moulds the
curved shape of
my curly haired neighbour
on his front
lawn. Under our
unscratched sky the
air is brisk, clear.
Spaced
apart we sit near the backyard
pond, surrounded by
empties: Blue Light.
Windowpanes
Jenny left me
half of a third.
In 1967 when she
was born, Colville painted
a man looking out
over the Pacific
and behind him
on the table is a gun.
If I place my hand on
my neighbour's windowpane
I can almost touch
the back of his
head as I walk by each
evening at street level
while he's watching his large
screen TV and next to it
is a neon sign:
Fuck it. Let's
buy
stuff. On his table
is a white plate holding a white
pistol. Then one evening
he's absent but the neon
remains bright and empty
whisky glasses sit on the
side table. Further away
my friend tours me
through the basement
of a building where
she designed a wine cellar:
each resident owns a cage
that can hold one hundred
bottles. One cage is
completely full but all
the bottles are dusty.
Another cage has only
one bottle and
it's labeled with a yellow
tag: 1927. Outside
the roses lean over
the sidewalk, their heads
full with the weight
of their beauty. The bare
torso of the man in
Colville's painting takes on
the light of
day. What choices
do we imagine
for him or for
my neighbour? I wish
I could imagine Jenny's
story but all I have is her
handwritten will.
Neighbours
Quirine
bends forward,
her
finger pushing into
her
vagina, the tampon sliding
smoothly
as she looks out
the
window across to the
courtyard
where her neighbour
pegs
his orange socks
on
the line. In the
living
room she sits on floor cushions
beside
her lover. Think
Buddha
like thoughts,
she
says. Is
a
Buddha-like-thought round
and
fat, and maybe
naked?
Quirine starts to laugh and
reaches
for her egg timer.
The
lover says, Oh, no, more
minutes. It’s going to take five
extra
to concentrate. Quirine
looks
across the courtyard and breathes,
watches,
breathes, a neighbour,
breathes, plugging, breathes, in a kettle.
Later
across the street in the Japanese Garden,
Quirine
and her lover walk hand in
hand
and stop in front of the shrine
to
Saint Jizo. She places a pebble
on
the dais. Blood slowly runs
down
her left
leg
and seeps into her white
sock.
On the stone path a woman
walks
towards them and openly
smiles. Only after she’s passed by
does
Quirine recognize the striped
sweater
from the kitchen-kettle
neighbour. (Was the man
with
her wearing
orange
socks?) She’s
never
seen her
face
to face.
Shrinking
You're on Crete
while I stand where rolled
carpets lean under
your northern street
number and next door inside
the flooring store
the man says, "I thought
you were visiting the
neighbours" as I stare
at the 4 cm by 4 cm turquoise
sample named Greek
Island and I'll lay
this linoleum in my
entrance as I wait for
your next visit when
you'll again walk
up my three flights
of stairs whistling
all the way.
Kintsukuroi
In her rose
dress she
cycles while
he rides the
carrier.
He wants to
take a selfie
but needs both
hands to hang
on. They're
searching
for a broken
bowl healed
with gold to
gift to their
grieving friend.
He's an organist
and she's a northern
nurse: she mends
the broken
bones of gold
miners when
their sky
falls in.
