slow dancing in a finite time

i come to babysit the little boy only months ago my sister called me about.  i was still living in two different cities bridgeable by plane.  nearly midnight when we were on the phone, that time:  she, breathless telling she was pregnant; how mom was going to take it; i, looking up, looking for stars.  in the nighttime, her voice 

over the phone was not unlike how we whispered in the dark.  long after the house was quiet.  two million stories.  including the ones about the new boy, the new movie, the new poster, the old.  how sometimes i scared her with stories, of ghosts and goblins.  how she believed, not knowing how i, too, frightened myself.  

how i told her over the phone:  this is how to tell mom.  begin, 1, 2, 3.  it'd get worse.  but you'd pull through.  it'd be okay.  i come to babysit the little boy only months ago my sister called me about.  she said, are you free today?  i said okay.  no matter the paperwork to reevaluate.  she said, your papers, you can bring.  

i said okay.  the morning is crisp.  she said she'd be out just quick. so i come to babysit the little boy only months ago my sister called me about.  it is fast asleep.  it is up and around.  it laughs and we run around.  we peekaboo, we roll on the ground.  it comes to me.  and holds its arms up wide.  carry me.  carry me.  i carry 

this little boy only months ago my sister called me about.  i carry it and it holds me close.  head on my shoulder, arms around.  i loop a music and slowly, we slow dance around.  this little boy my once-upon-a-time-little sister called me about.



















   
        

expression. of peace.

after red


i tell my lover i am going to do painting today.  i will go to the hardware store and buy the paint brushes.  flat ones intended for walls.  those that are meant to color.  and are unapologetic.  i do not care if sio montera says not to use house paints.  that they are not meant for art.  great or otherwise.  i will get a few pieces of good wood.  some nails.  a hammer.  a white canvas.  and build myself a frame.  large.  and rest it on the wall.  i have a stroke in mind.  it is blue.  and slightly convex.  concave.  when seen from the other end.  center bottom thrown to top far right.  i mean it like a wave.  of something else.  maybe a part.  of a circle.  even though it trails away