7. Number seven is a crooner, a jukebox ass-swayin’ horny as spring-fucking
crooner. She sings and she giggles. The sound of her laugh drains into me, a
stingy sap. I am a willing receptacle for her laughter—For her joy, that terrifying
division between elation and sorrow. I provide noiseless support.
7. Tipping the canvas toward me, I watch the pigment drag the coarse surface. The russet
wash drips from the edge and puddles on the floor. I notice tiny strands from the paint-
brush everywhere. I don’t think I know her soul.
7. I don’t think my car will fit in her car. This is about little words. Number seven
mocks, a diddling song, say something, what’s the struggle?—make a promise
that you will contour to her shape.
7. Braiding my hair, I watch the pattern of folding strands before me. And then my arms,
exhausted, hang to the floor. Outside is a mower, a shirtless man, bleach belly. His
shadow falls in through the window pane, his strides back and forth across the floor. I
want to think I gave her my mind. Blades slice the grass; shoot trimmings against the
window-pane. A dull routine. I sneeze.
7. Leaning the canvas at an angle I wipe off the paint. Why don’t I remember this about
new brushes? What I hang up is three white primed canvases, emptiness so striking I
wonder why I thought I could change it.
7. Lifting the front end in, I try to twist the handlebars over the head rest of the
back seat. The hatch door inclines heavily on my head. The fucking bike just
doesn’t fit.
