glazing circles with my brush and ink onto thin paper, let it run. I don’t want to
see edges today, or angles, or hear any pitch above G. Sustained, tied whole notes
nestled within the staff, slow-changing minor chords to diminished sevenths.
I don’t want stillness of sound today.
I don’t want dry things today, mist flowering to snow in light, spinning orbs
floating down, as it happened in my dreams. I don’t want clearly seen things today,
no glasses or high-resolution photography taken with
a zoom. Windows filmed with ocean salt, my eyelids a blurry, crystallized
border to my vision, a fog softens colors. I don’t want boldness today.
If my heart asserts itself I will say with my hands, Stay within the ribs. If my voice
speaks too loudly I will show it pictures of that deep blue we have seen before, which
is bigger than life. And if my hands want to make squares, I will dip the brush in a
glass of gray ink wash—I will not wipe the brush’s sides on the edge of anything
first, I will not set cardboard beneath the paper to protect the table from the
seeping, the water, may it keep speaking through
.
.
–Anacelie Verde Claro

























































































































