buzzes like a fridge/

"well maybe if you weren't wearing that red lip-stick it never 
would have happened."
"maybe if you hadn't been born with those hands of yours."
"don't look at me like that."
"like what."
"it's the same way you look at the sky when you get out of the car and slam the door shut - you're up and inside and taken away. just now those eyes look hungry like a mouth would and your hands are your eyes; observers, and your mouth is just, it's all incredible."
"oh, and then you sang. softly and more slow than the original version."
"you spin me right round baby right round."
"yeah and i smiled. 'like a record baby..."
i pictured a red, red room. i pictured all my pasts as various dingy shades of changing greys. i told you this here and now was color and you verbally replied with fervent hands. 
red rooms, please. always with these colors. right round, round round. 
"you're like my personal little fireplace."
"you are like a slow moving electricity buzz, a witch of a man. what do they call that? love, do you miss your river? could i be the sea? right now, this, does that feel like a wave?"
the room smelled like cinnamon and felt like roasting chestnuts. things didn't happen, they were dreamed. maybe god or a stranger or a man moments before his death desperately conjuring warm images of the most light and love he could fathom were dreaming all this up. we belonged to the collective idea of what love could possibly be, if it exists. there was a slow pattern of a  tactical series of moments that were in control instead of you or i or us."
"put your fingertips on my shoulders, sweet potato."
i never ever needed to say yes. 
"i think they're warlocks."
"male witches, in christianity, they're warlocks."
"no, no that sounds wrong. you're a healer, a mystery."
"i am not the mystery here."
you crawl on top of me, your eyes still seekers.
"i said don't look at me like that."
you stay right there, comely and persistent. 
"okay" i say, but don't, i just surf without words. on a spin-drift collision course, in circles, everywhere, everything.
later on i look for the meaning of warlock. it is apparently a deragatory term for witches. it means "traitor," "deceptive."  a male witch is just that, a male witch, a sorcerer of sorts. when i come back to bed you are asleep on your side, knees up and child-like. i am consumed.
i sleep without dreaming. 

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Hi Kerry. It's Margarita, your hubby's friend. I LOVED this. I am envious of your use of dialogue....I struggle with that as a writer. Your dialogue is so natural!

I also LOVED your descriptions: so unique, very sensory, and so NOT cliche which was nice. Sometimes when I am reading I can almost guess what words are coming next. I hate that. You definitely do not have that problem! "the room smelled like cinnamon and felt like roasted chestnuts..." <--just one example of a description I loved. and felt as I read it.

This is like a part of the middle of a really good novel! I am left in mystery and craving more: like the girl in this poem. And the guy: I am still mulling this all over. I can't decide if he is a bad boy, a good boy, or on the cusp :) I do know that the definition of a warlock is definitely suitable to the Bad Boy!!

Thank you for your beautiful writing. I tried to subscribe but don't think I did it. Weird stretched out screens have been appearing lately when i try to post a comment on something I have viewed via facebook, though I am not ON fb. Anyway, I should add you as a friend on the monstrous social network!!!