Write me a poem, he insisted.
I thought a poem could not do him justice
Too narrow a fellow, lost easily in the grass of words.
Needed instead were large swatches of cloth,
Christo drapes across the Rio Grande, easily drifting in the wind,
orange organza and yards of tulle
draped about Greek statues and Roman columns.
Words like slivers of wood under fingernails
Too weak,
Too painful
Memories that hide behind grassy knolls
Needed instead an army of Japanese painters’
broad strokes with hake brushes sweeping delicately
In ink, black on white,
Simple swirls of intricate dimension
Messages borne off the sides of the hake.
Deliver a fete of happiness,
Sadness when the words fail.
Design delicate hake-induced joyful grins.
Paint squiggles on a receding sunset
Where they entwine and clutch
Each in a never-ending embrace.
