Thursday, February 06, 2014


On hands and knees I crawl into his mind
always at the wrong time,
just as he is drifting off
or when he’s cursing God.
He shakes his fists
as if he is the only one enslaved
but turns the lights on
and takes up his pen.
Circles of light pale the paper
as the curtain rises in his brain.
He pushes me down between folds
of parchment and strokes me with his nib
filling me in, molding me into something
I am no longer, something he can almost see.
 For days, her scent rode up and down the elevator with me.
The stopper from my perfume bottle lolls on the table.
He brings it to his nose and breathes it in like oxygen.


Iulia Flame said...

Haunting. This builds in intensity and, like the best perfumes, leaves subtle, lingering notes of scent.

Cheryl and Janet Snell said...

Thank you! Janet called the painting Examining Ophelia and I started by imaging Shakespeare's process. It evolved into a meditation on grief and memory.