ourselves, running her fingers through my hair in a way
that sends shudders from my ceiling to my floor.
Yeah, yo! Paint a picture for me, pun intended, he says,
winking at me for the third and hopefully last time.
Art is
looking into
Mona Lisa’s eyes, I say,
showing them
da Vinci’s masterpiece
on page 27,
and daring her
to look back
into your soul.
Walking the midnight
sky tightrope
and dancing inside
the Red Square, tempting fate.
Watching Venus de Milo
rise out of sculpted marble,
whisper your name
as you tell her
your deepest-held
secret.
It’s Monet’s
Impression, Sunrise
carrying you away
on a harbor of dreams
that only God
knows about.
It’s being gilded
in golden mystique
so ancient, it’s new.
It’s finding yourself
under the spell of
Gustav Klimt’s
The Kiss,
knowing you have
your own masterpiece
inside of you,
to create the way
you want to live
if you dare
run through
the Undulating Paths
to find
your gifts.
It’s knowing you have
this one life,
this one chance to do it
your way
before The Physical
Impossibility of Death
in the Mind
of Someone Living
leaves you too afraid
to find out.
Speechless Again
They both stare
at me
like deer
facing the headlights
of a car
that just came
outta nowhere.
Who are you? Walt says.
That was beautiful, Noah.
Shall I continue? I say, kinda feeling myself.
Giddyup, Picasso.
Primer Five
Look at this, I say,
showing them
page 71,
Salvador Dali’s famous
Girl at a Window
oil-and-watercolor
painting.
Tell me what you see.
A girl with a big rump-shaker staring out the window,
Walt says.
You’re so crass, Walt! Sam says.
Look deeper, I say, not looking
at the painting,
but at Sam,
like I’ve been looking at her
for seven years.
Like I’ve been looking
at everything
in my world:
The floor beneath us,
solid oak
like her brown eyes.
The clock on the wall,
slow, measured,
like her walk.
Look at the Dali, I say again.
Really look at it.
Tell me you do not see
a woman
looking for love
in a lavender-blue house dress.
Resting
by the window.
For a moment.
In between the laundry.
And the cleaning.
And the dinner.
Nah, yo, I don’t see that at all, Walt says.
I think she’s waiting, Sam adds.
Will y’all stop interrupting me, I’m on a roll.
My bad, yo.
Her name is Dream
Dream imagines
what her life would be like
if she had a dance to go to.
A man who moved
to her music.
And the people who pass by
stop and watch.
They listen
to the girl at the window.
Dream cannot see them.
She only sees the sea,
smells the hope,
dances with each wave,
takes her dreams closer
to where they belong . . .
Sounds like jazz to me, Walt says. There’s this song called
Corcovado, “Quiet thoughts and quiet dreams/quiet walks
Dude, you’re still interrupting me.
You cannot see her face, I continue,
but you know
it sings
a song of melancholy
for she will eventually
pick up her damp dishcloth
and return to the kitchen.
To her life.
Sam at the Window
That is not a dishrag,
Noah, Sam says.
It is a scarf.
This is what I see:
There is a woman
with curves that ripple
in a taut, striped indigo dress.
She is imprisoned
by trust and longing.
Everything is blue,
even the new shoes
her bare feet will not wear
again.
She is not waiting
at the window
for a man
to kill
her bliss.
She’s waiting on zephyr.
She’s waiting
on the cool, calm kiss
of summer
to fly her to the moon.
Which is why she has the scarf, right? I add, inspired
with opportunity.
Exactly, Noah! This is what I see, she says,
and we are both silent,
save the silent tears
falling,
until Walt does
what Walt always does.
I never thought I’d be saying this, but y’all are too deep for
me. I feel like I’ve just made love, he says, cracking us all
up. And I’m a virgin. Dayum, art is no joke. I’m gonna see
if Divya just wants to see a movie.
Opportunity
In between
batting cages,
party planning,
listening to Walt
talk nonstop
about how Divya
smells like summer,
about how Divya
is getting a tattoo,
about how Divya
must love him, because
she wants him to meet
her parents
when they come
to visit
next year,
I spend
the next week
trying
and failing
to convince myself
to let Sam know
that I am
her secret admirer.
So, on Friday
I show up
to class
an hour before
anyone else
to tape an
anonymous love letter
under her trig desk,
only to discover
at lunch
that she and
Stephanie Wilson
switched desks.
NOOOOO!
At Lunch
The entire cafeteria
is buzzin’ and poppin’
about the letter,
about Sam’s secret admirer,
about the lick.
Wait, what lick?
dear love
your lips
are two sonnets
i like to link
each line
with rhyme
and repeat.
x
is what I thoug
ht
I typed.
dear love
your lips
are two sonnets
i like to lick
each line
with rhyme
and repeat.
x
is what I actually
typed.
All the Things I Want to Say
Sorry they found out,
but is that the worst thing ever?
Let them know.
Let them laugh
with envy
at what love looks like
between
two stars
inching
toward sunrise.
All the Things I Text
1:14 pm
Sorry they found out.
They’re just jealous
that someone loves you
blindly and madly.
1:14 pm
That someone loves you
enough to be
anonymous.
1:15 pm
That someone loves you
more than their own
pride and ego.
1:15 pm
That someone loves you
beyond compare,
enough to take a chance
in the dark.
1:17 pm
Sorry, Sam. Text me back.
You’re still coming to the party
tomorrow night, right?
Texts with Sam
11:11 pm
Nothing’s real:
Art. Love. Life.
11:11 pm
What do ya mean?
11:12 pm
My hopes
have been mangled.
11:12 pm
I thought my admirer
was real.
But it’s all fake.
11:12 pm
Fake?
11:14 pm
Hello?
11:16 pm
Pretend love,
like Cruz.
Everything is pretend.
The joke is on me.
11:16 pm
Maybe it
was an accident.
11:17 pm
What, my life?
11:17 pm
Stop! Come on, Sam!
11:18 pm
I’m the joke
of the school.
11:19 pm
I’m calling you.
11:19 pm
No thanks.
I need to sleep this off.
Good night.
11:20 pm
I’m sorry.
You’re truly amazing.
Too good for all this.
11:23 pm
You shouldn’t be sorry.
You’d never make me
look like an idiot.
11:23 pm
. . . .
11:24 pm
Thanks, Noah.
I wish more guys
were like you.
Sweet dreams.
The Party
Walt’s Uncle Stanley Stanley
and two other dudes
pull up
in a van
stolen
straight out
of Scooby-Doo.
They jump out
in matching
red velvet jackets
with purple lapels,
unload their instruments—keyboard,
saxophone, double bass—and
find a dark corner
in the living room
to do set up
and jam, which, for now,
involves Uncle Stanley Stanley
blowing his sax, and
moving his body
like he’s been electrocuted
one hundred thousand times.
10:15 pm
For the first hour
and fifteen minutes,
Walt and I
are convinced
no one is coming,
because
no one is here.
But then
they start rolling in,
with cell phones clicking
and bodies shoving me
to the side
like it’s not my house.
These people,
who I see every day,
who are practically strangers,
take over.
Walt comes out with a tray of
shrimp cocktail,
fried chicken and biscuits
from Popeyes,
and some sort of punch
that some guy,
who I’ve never seen before,
starts immediately spiking
with a bottle
from his backpack.
10:29 pm
When Divya sashays
through the door,
Walt abandons
any sense of chill
he’s acquired
from Floyd’s School of Cool.
He falls into her, practically
knocking her over
with a sloppy,
nervous hug.
Oh, this is gonna be fun!
Love Is Love Is Love
This sounds really familiar, Divya says, walking into the
living room.
It’s a Billie Holiday composition, Walt says to her.
It sure is. WOW! You actually did it. A jazz trio. Nice
touch, she says.
That’s how I roll, he says. Are you pleased?
Beyond. I have this record in the shop. Of course, you
know what’s on the B-side.
Of course.
SWING, BROTHER, SWING, they both say in unison,
high-fiving.
I’ll leave you all to your Jazz Jeopardy moment.
I’m sorry, Noah. Here, I made a salad for the party, she
says, handing me a big bowl.
Thanks, I guess.
You excited about tonight?
Yeah, should be a cool party. People are actually showing
up.
No, I mean, are you going to finally tell her?
I shoot Walt a look of disgust that’s becoming all too
frequent. Seriously, man, you told her too. Man, you
suck!
I think it’s pretty sweet, Noah, Divya says. It’s the kind of
thing every girl wants. Real love.
. . . .
Love is love is love, Walt says, grinning and practically
hiding behind her. You want something to drink, Divya?
Indeed, I do. Something heavy, she says.
. . . .
Coffee or Dew, silly, she says.
Whew! Walt says, ’cause I could never give my heart wholly
and solely to a woman who imbibes. It’s a waste of brain
cells, and who needs it when you have imagination. I want
a woman who’s high on life.
And then
they just stare
at each other
like they’re enraptured,
so I walk away
to Uncle Stanley Stanley’s band
jamming
to the tune of
the Austin Powers theme song.
Blur
People cozy
on the couch
on my patio
up the stairs.
Solo cups filled
with punch plus.
No one’s
listening
to the live
elevator music,
except Walt and Divya,
which doesn’t faze them
’cause it’s their world
right now.
Still no Sam.
10:45 pm
A gang
of baseball players
led by Cruz
staggers in from
the backyard,
where they’ve been
testing the limits
of decency
in my pool.
He chugs another beer
then screams
to everyone:
LISTEN UP!
The Masquerade Is Off
I LOVE YOU, SAM. YOU’RE THE LADY OF MY
LIFE.
he yells
into Uncle Stanley Stanley’s mic
like he means it,
only Sam’s not even here.
The crowd is dead silent.
Except his teammates, who
hoot and holler
like he’s just hit
another home run.
I’m not your lady, remember? comes a voice
from the front door.
She’s here, standing
strong like Athena,
hands on her hips
with a look
on her face
that says,
I dare anyone
to mess with me
tonight,
especially you, Cruz.
She winks at me,
and we both smile
like something’s about to
go down.
The Myth
I WROTE IT, Cruz hollers.
I wrote the letter
to let you know
how much
I do love you.
Let me count the ways, he continues
like he’s Shakespeare reincarnated.
He licks his big,
crusty lips,
then begins to serenade her
in a blotto voice
with random clichés:
You’re the apple of my eye.
You’re the grass between my toes.
You’re the toothpaste to my toothbrush.
You’re the deodorant to my BO.
WHAT THE HECK IS THAT! Walt yells out. Noah,