Andrew Wyeth; Wind from the Sea
Lex Vex
There was no breeze
The day she moved the
curtain—
Its fraying jellyfish
tendrils
Dressed her nothing
in lace.
Each yellowing Arcadian
flora
Sewn by a soil embrace
Ruffles along the
stitches
Backlit by the sill’s
charlotte.
She stares, eyes with
the salt
Through the starlet,
Between the will-o-wisp
Trailing its flax,
To the lane outside
Two deep rutted tracks
Flowing down the dune
Taunting its prisoner.
She’s waded through sands
And burning sycamore
And even now she
scrapes a fingernail on the wall
Chipping away at the dry
wash.
Waiting for the plow
to return
From its acres of
pumpkins and squash
And all yellowing
things
Sounding like steam
forced through a brassy tear
A coarse and
weightless netting
Would catch light with
her hair
But the sun only
reflects
The particles of
juice boxes, crackerjack games
And the old skins of cedar and dust.
Paper skinned flames
Brings a yellowing
sky to ochre wall
All in the view of a
far off sea of dreams
The color of stale
love grows dim.
She sees the clouds
Salted with a storm
And the sky, filled
with milk, blinds bright
But it is the hazing
dark for which she sits
Licked with heat
Walking and waking on
hominy grits,
Fading in and out in
a way
That could be
mistaken cinematic.
Eyes separated from
time
By a primrose veil of
monochromatic
Distractions, she
fails to see
The him moving the
curtain already beside her.
©2014 Lex Vex
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