It has to do with spreading herself across nights and beds.
        Days for a lover. Lights out for long hours. Driving
        outside limits. Speeds and towns. And whether things are moving
        in or out of focus. It has to do with who she is
        to herself. How the room would look if the window were gone.

        It has to do with how to make tea. And exits. And love as if she had
        been born
        a thousand years earlier in a red room with nothing but teachers. It
        has to do with ruining
        the picture. Flashing a new blue dress outside someone's window. In the
        back
        room's mirror. Inside her closed eyes before sleep. It has to do with
        California
        or Paris. A small white house where the language isn't hers. A street
        crossed and re-crossed inside somewhere she has never been.

        It has to do with Jon. How he looks to himself now. When he looks at
        himself
        over and over. And God inside him. Kicked back in a warm spot. Feet
        facing
        the rest of the world. Eyes half-open. Bible closed and marked. And
        Jesus on the way.
        It has to do with how he sees her when he doesn't see her. His purpose
        to not look back until life returns to itself.

        It has to do with how many clocks will stop in the same number
        of years. Taking her time. It has to do with her willingness to love
        what she doesn't love. It has to do with making herself up
        in the bathroom vanity every time she returns
        to where she is now. Convincing herself she'll know
        when she knows. It has to do with being gone.

        It has to do with lighting her cigarette. Her lipsticked lips. Holding
        the string
        between her teeth while she finishes packaging his socks and jeans and
        a little gift. And finding her favorite bridge. A time of day when the
        wind is cool
        and she can take off her raspberry hairpin. The silver necklace. It has
        to do with angles, a way
        to hold her head out the window. To watch it all fall.

        A way to believe the birds won't wind up whisking it out of the air.
        Flying it out
        as a message. Instead of letting it go.

Copyright © Chris Young, 2004. All Rights Reserved.