Winter’s Savings 1. In my studio I stare at the painting you nailed on my wall a month ago– a girl sitting on a rooftop watching the marketplace, a string of paper lanterns keep their light, not a flicker, suspended over the quick tongues of bargainers and rapid exchanges, as the soothsayer captures a purchase. I remember the ease and rush of hustling– a camaraderie between the sweets stand and savory meats, then a passerby and me, locked in, suddenly quiet on the crowded street, negotiating the price of a love poem. Sometimes I’d slip into absence, and only wake when requested to write into a stranger’s pain on my typewriter. That is where I left my stand when the world changed. 2. You looked a little anxious when I unwrapped the painting. I was surprised, and you said, “because I thought of you busking.” I look at it often. I would have you in this room staring on our backs at the ceiling fan where you pointed out one day a barely perceptible note you placed on a wing in green ink. I have been lonely, meditating daily, trying not to think– you have been away, submerged in water, sorting your mind. I am torn, but I tend to sun salutations and occasionally the dishes. I speak softly, sweep the floor, and shake out the sheepskin. You may find me here, even if it’s sad news, and you choose another. If you must hide your eyes, I’ll shine mine still. Or if you decide to find out what it’s like to rest with me on this simple bed where we caressed now and then and kept ourselves awake until morning birds tapped your curly head before they flew away– I would let you say whatever’s on your mind. You may be a river that runs through my shore, that slips over the rocks, that aches and recollects its passage. I lean into my savings, nights held by your last touch– and hope you bring– below your brows, your lashes– an unabashed look.
