You Don’t Have To Like Braque
I see how he treats you, leaves you dis
jointed, un hinged
Frowning, perhaps, though your white lips are cleft by planes, and
It is hard to tell how you feel.
You don’t have to like Braque
Really, you don’t. I know
What a mandolin looks like
It don’t look like that!
I too find no joy in his browncollegeofdifficulty
hisbroke nneckof perspec
Tive, the knives and live fruit
a throat swallowing nowhere.
His love is cold thesis, a dialectic of grays, collapsing and folding, unfolding, confining you to his crumpled surfaces, bending your arms in impossible angles. He
has placed you, parched,
beside an undrinkable cup.
“Why not that time in Kentucky?” I hear you say.
“When we crouched in the tall grass, feeding
the pink-tongued, butterscotch foal
through the slats in the fence? Breathing
the wet, green summer air that curled down from the white house,
Sloped up to the blue sky, and you said that there were stars,
Even now, behind that luminous screen.
That was a pretty picture. Why not paint that?”
I am here for you somewhere,
a bright-eyed brown fish. I am
Emergent, if you look for me behind those rusting pipes. I will
Play this fractured instrument for you. For you, I have
a simple cup that
is not flat, that is not broken. We can
fill it with cold water.
We can drink.
Edwin Rozic received his M.A. in English Literature from DePaul University. He teaches English to people who already speak English and lives in Chicago with his wife and son and a menagerie of furry and scaled beasts. His work has been published in McSweeney's, Glimmer Train, The Matador Review, SalonZine, and after hours.
The Ekphrastic Review
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