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number 61
P O E T R Y by Liz Robbins |
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| Love is Changing, And I Won't Change I'm about to play the ingenue in a Spanish soap opera. Tall copperskinned blackhaired Juan walks through my trailer door to practice the kissing scene. I dream up to the heartstopping licking of lips. But even in the fantasy, I start coloring in the wrong details, script curling in his fist, gold ring glinting. Already looking for ways to flee the moment. I get distracted not by sweatdrops on his brow or the sound of swallowing, but the view out the window, the horses peering from behind trailer bars, the pupil-black of their manes, undertow of the sun's rays. I want to be the hero. A rattlesnake curled in the grass strikes, and I grab my rusty bike to pedal to the vet a mile away. I fiddle with the radio till I find soothing, classical. Watch as the vet extracts venom from the horse's leg, watch her sew and bundle, while I talk low, make plans to buy apples. But the dream drifts back to my window, I watch the old blue paint rot on the trailer door. I conjure up Juan, try to feel something. |