Orange blue flame flickering in her teeth. It was fire suspended in the heavy swinging air between her mouth and the sky, an oppressive wet darkness colored ocean.
Do her teeth smile or grimace? They seem to act out the grace of Death, which to my imagination appears lipless, haunting, and full of teeth.
She brought the pipe to her mouth, full cerise lips enveloping the tip with a rare girlish coquetry I had seen only once before.
Cool noisy evening in the local puny park, fireworks crashing bright and intense red in the sky beside a calm yellowing big moon. A man confronted Della as he spied her running off with his full and polished picnic basket, foiled tip of a wine bottle peeping from the wicker lid. White collared and hair slicked he yelled and I watched from ahead, hidden, as she feigned horror and apologized. Her hips lilted and her toes pointed into the ground and her suddenly curvaceous legs pushed off the wet grass and she leaned forward into their conversation space, hands clapsed, the fine and subtle em of her neckline so shockingly alive. Anger melted and he brushed her off into oblivion and the few seconds of her feminine entrancement sublimate. Now only memory.
No comments:
Post a Comment