[The Birthday by Chagall, 1915]
The longer I sit, the farther you go away from me. Elbows pinched, gripping the chair, looking away. You hollow in a corner. Your chair cups you. You own mauve air, green desert, sage smell is yours, gray green black, black that cuts you from falling out to me. Look here, I shed obsolescence as the morning sheds night. the prickle of space around you picks me up as a particle. Look at me. I touch your stiff arm. It softens and you lean your shoulder back and turn your head to look at me. Your eyes are big, your hair is loose at its roots, your mouth relaxed. I step in front of your chair, fold between your knees and rest my head on your belly. Your soft arm curves around my head and hair Your belly is warm and you smell of sage.You look back again to what held you suspended there. Your fingers move slightly in my hair, against my temples, again and again the same action. You never stop.