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She presses her tongue
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1 |
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against the boxwood floor
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2 |
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and can almost taste that night:
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3 |
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the Bordeaux staining her lips,
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4 |
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the tang of turpentine steeped everywhere--
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5 |
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into his bare walls, his rags, and even his ears.
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6 |
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His conversation never starved
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7 |
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but boiled over, likening half-peeled potatoes
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8 |
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to the Alpilles Mountains,
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9 |
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her eyes to ripe olives
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10 |
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savored there. She remembers
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11 |
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the frame of his face sagging
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12 |
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over the bedpost, orange wheat fields
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13 |
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bristling across his sallow cheeks,
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14 |
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and the crimson coverlet, stiff and coarse
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15 |
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as aged bread crust, how it cracked
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16 |
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under the weight of his hand over hers,
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17 |
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no longer timid but bold, with meaningful strokes.
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18 |
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When she whispered "tournesol," his breath
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19 |
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smoked, each syllable, a glowing coal
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20 |
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in his mouth. All of this before glass shatters,
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21 |
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before wine splatters over the floorboards,
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22 |
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before the taste of that night will blend
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23 |
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lead and sour plums on the bloody canvas
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24 |
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of her tongue.
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25 |