Trillions of reasons to love the heathen.
—Frank McGuinness
(living proof:
I’ve hung a portrait,
a copy of one of the
dozens of photos
you’ve sent, inside
a black wooden
frame, on the wall
next to my bed
about three feet
above where my
right arm generally
lies for most of the
night as I sleep,
sometimes jerking
or twitching a bit,
no doubt, but I
suppose mostly
it lies stock still,
crooked at an
open angle,
almost akimbo
in relation to
the rest of me—)
During the day,
or in the middle
of night when my
room is lit, each
dimple seems to
reflect it back,
the light, each
color of the
spectrum, in
fact, directly
at me, whether
I’m sitting in
bed, at my
desk, cooking
a bit of break
fast, or washing
the last of the
dishes. But at
night, your pre
sence, your
mercury pools,
are eyes that
don’t dim, but
glow in the dark,
are the source of
beams that aim
directly at me
from contours
that seem
simultaneously
severe and re
laxed (chill as
a basset hound
collapsed into
a heap, one
eye half-open,
on a cool porch
on an August
morning), as I
lie in my broken-
down bed. And
as well, the
gleaming line
atop your
bottom lip—
your lips,
punctuated
at each end
by dimply
exclamations—
and it’s as dark
as this room gets,
but I can still see
the backs of my
hands, the tip of
my nose, thanks
to you, askance
on the wall,
as always,
tucked into
a frame that
can barely fit
your silhouette
that glows like
a lighthouse
at the end of
a long, misty
peninsula,
demanding
the mind’s
eye, at
whatever
time you
please,
day or
night.
