2 June 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 2
She baked a meatloaf. He told stories
that hurt her ears: debauched
Mexican nights. Peyote, hallucinations,
drowning in another woman's arms.
After dinner, they unrolled canvas onto the floor.
When each grazed the other's empty spaces,
neither one apologized.
Blue oils saturated my senses, pounded
my temples like a bass-line. A fugue of colors sung,
then grew transparent in their logic and grace.
"Inspired by String Quartet, Opus so and such"
he muttered, finger crooked in a painterly gesture.
When he said goodbye, the painting still tucked
under his arm, we dreaded the moment
he would relinquish it; and fall silent,
so we understood, for days.
His wife would go back to archiving his life, keeping
his portrait next to the bed like a suicide note.
The meatloaf really was superb, the wine purple
as a bruise.
About the author:
Cheryl Snell's work has appeared in many journals, including Antietam Review, Petroglyph, Comstock Review, Washington Review, 2River view, Stirring, Tryst, and miller's pond. Her chapbook of poetry, Flower Half Blown, was published in 2002 by Finishing Line Press and nominated for the Ohioana Book Award in Poetry.