Of Rabbits and Flowers
by Wayne H W Wolfson
Always at noon, always, even in the heat. Outside the window, tiny birds in the tree among the chartreuse leaves. You look to see who is calling.
Always at noon she comes, rushing up the stairs two at a time, her steps growing closer, heralded by the tiny cry of the finches. Something lost has fallen. Could I be sure of it?
Even I am not cruel enough to just kick her out afterwards. I am too tired too.
I get up, she lay there. Venus in repose. In your dream, move as if on a day too hot, during siesta. A dream whose soundtrack are horns, drunk off the cloying perfume of jasmine and grilled meat, from outside. Outside is a life of sorts.
You do not care. The codeine makes you dreamy.
Not you, but it is I who needs to relax. Now, the only way for her to stay, to win, is by crying.
She rushes towards me, drying canvas on the floor, her heel mars the paint. Fat crescent moons growing ever blurrier as they reach the edge of the canvas.
A weeks worth of smokes money on paint and in her rush to me, to tears, to victory, the ill placed heels turning rabbits into rings. For them, for me, the hunt will go on.
Fakes siestas, a dried bouquet of jasmine and many forgotten valentines.
The sweet chaos of her kiss mixed with the salt of her tears, the whole thing was held together by the sticky embrace of still wet paint.
© wayne h. w. wolfson 2007.
you can also read an interview with wayne wolfson by paul hawkins in our 'articles' section.
more of wayne's work can be found on his website terrible beauty.