within your attic, i stumbled upon a trunk. inside, i found, below some
clothes, three polaroid pictures, sitting on the back of a folded poster.
the white edges of the first hid the contents of the second, and
the second, the same to the third, making a rectangle, almost perfect.
it was you, the first, but a you that i did not recognize. the cheeks were
much stronger, the lips, fuller. you always wore a lot of makeup.
i angled the picture, and it caught the fading twilight, spreading upon
an off-center shot of your face, the u of mute blurred across the stereo.
your hair was in curls, reminding me of that halloween years ago,
you, dressed as monroe, and me, dressed as an older JFK.
we rooted through thrift stores that fall, looking for our ideal
black suit, white dress, finding only the perfect pearl earrings.
later, as i was walking home, i saw a young blonde woman
on the street. reminded me of you, i smiled and reached in my pocket.
twilight became smeared rouge and i turned. comparing the picture
to her hair becoming orange in the evening fading to night.
i squinted, staring at the image. it was you, but a you with longer hair
and less wrinkles, pursed lips, and warm features, freckles
with the picture in my hands, i watched for details, your face
off center, the angle, your lips. you wore more makeup then.
i set the other within the folds of my bedding, and i stared. this was
not you. it was a woman, yet not; a memory, perhaps, a place, maybe
something forgotten, or nothing at all. i sat upon my bed and sighed,
rolled onto my side, and stared. the picture wrinkled below me, and
i brought it to my face, feeling for imperfections with my hands,
looking with the glare of the table lamp. to my eye, it was unmarked.
the picture of a picture of the poster above my bed: the famous one of
marilyn with blonde curls, red lips, holding down her white dress.
we would lie here in the heat of the summer, talking about ourselves,
and the previous evening, making attempts to piece together the events,
the stares, and the kisses, the silence. and, the entire time, unknown to you,
reflected in the daylight on the poster above my bed, i watched your naked
body squirming to stay covered within the folds of my bedding.
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1 comment:
Zach,
A nice prose piece. I really think it has potential to submit somewhere. I would recommend a few things, allow me to consider.
The geometrics of the first stanza are disorienting. Too many cardinal numbers, and shapes. Same with "angle" in the second stanza, it's a word you use a lot, but it's like using the word "dude," a matter of habit but not saying anything on a poetic level.
The theme you need to emphasize--right now you've got the words, a narrative thread, but a weak voice--is the past a present. Obviously the photograph unlocks memories, and these need to be distinguished. There's a black and white, nostalgic feel to the flashback. The "you" needs to be developed to strike a distinction between the present and past. The description is superficial, I suggest reading some Kenneth Koch to get an idea of how to use objects to give a deeper sense of character to a subject.
E
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