Pushcart Nominee Lisa Galloway
She Was a Chagall
I was the Hulk, not green
but ugly and muscles, a transformation.
That night, I drank something nasty,
Jagermeister and Coke,
she called it sassafras, it was brown yuck
in a squat rocks glass. My face contorted,
and it slid to a clinking crash while
pretzel-like she showed me a yoga pose
called something I can't remember
but it looked to me like kama-sutra.
We brushed hands and torsos, trading turns
to the kitchen for more drinks.
I mocked her multi-vitamins, one-a-day,
her freezer filled with ginger root
and bagged kumquats.
When she laughed, she squinted and clapped.
I was a slave to her smile, tried to impress, I preyed on her
entertainment, my life a calendar marking days,
waiting for her legs, dancer-like to scissor open ooh—
and then after that night
for her paintings to include flying cows or chickens,
for her watercolor to bleed
goldenrod to raspberry. She always wore
black socks and sandals, but it was somehow okay
because she could peel an orange
into the trash can and make it sexy.
(This poem is copyright protected, all rights reserved, and may not be reproduced without the express written consent of the author.)