Black and White
In weeds behind Grandma’s roses
I discover a scrambled drawing,
a tangle of lines too distraught
to have been scribbled by a child.
The paper’s crisp as a dollar.
The scumble of fine black lines
drawn in the densest India ink
.
suggests the windswept hairdo
of a favorite movie star.
As I formulate that metaphor
the paper rustles in my grip
and the lines rearrange themselves
slightly, almost making a shape.
I try to discipline the mind
.
with tenets of freemasonry,
the Cartesian paradox,
the Aquinas proof that God
remembers all our birthdays.
Laid flat and smooth on my desk
the drawing heaves like a fever.
Tiny feet, a child’s patent shoes,
.
and slowly the hourglass
of a flimsy cotton dress dyed
cornflower blue. No color,
of course, only the outline
of a definite cornflower blue.
The child lacks arms and a head
so I leave, closing the blinds,
.
and let the geometry ripen
in the dim afternoon. At dusk
a storm crawls across the hills,
groaning and weeping, an effort
I respect. The drawing, I find,
has almost completed itself.
It smiles. I touch it. Lightning
. sneers at the window. A hiss
of electrons passes from me
to the child and she rises
full-sized from the tiny page
and embraces me so thoroughly
the simple black-and-white of me
explodes the illusion of flesh.
~
words: William Doreski, New Hampshire (blog)
image: Molly Sutton Kiefer, Minnesota (blog & photos)
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