on the revolutions of the celestial spheres

I.

i remember the year you stopped painting
stifled it like a brush fire that grew insolent
and unwieldy in the backyard

you forced your hands to be still
pushed them straight down from your arms
and heavy with life and buzzing numb
they swung, vast anchors
searching for sea's bottom

you kept your eyes shut and quiet
to avoid seeing your next painting manifest
jump before you like a pen-pal you grew up writing to
but had not yet met

and when you spoke
your voice lay wrapped and mummified
for fear of giving too much away
about how much you missed it

before copernicus shook the galaxy
and scattered planets, left them strewn haphazardly, ellipses
there was a belief that light came from the eyes
and wherever you looked light was shed
in the shapes of cones, perfect headlights into your lover's face

and you had learned to keep your eyes closed


II.

when i lived in a time zone
that made our voices echo on the phone
i starved for you
i began writing like each breath pushed through pen
was a loaf of bread
i was dry boned with hunger
suddenly deaf-mute
reserving my energies for that most necessary
reduction to the tiny canvas of a brown notebook and black pen
moving at a speed that left letters half-curled after being left in the rain
and expelling words bulimically, as though ridding myself sated me

while you stayed comatose
i seized like an epileptic
skittish, heart a beating bumblebee


III.

you began painting again to slow my pulse
because unlike copernicus
i had swallowed the responsibility of the universe
rather than scattering it to space

your hands began clasping palette knives arthritically
creaking, wooden and unused
but remarkably responsive
titanium, umber, vandyke brown oiled your joints

you stretched your neck, shook the dust off
and bones popping with potential energy
you broke canvas like a stubborn horse
swathed it in primer
and moved your body like a swimmer

i let myself keep my eyes closed
and inhaled to taste the fumes of starting over
i used your strokes as my metronome, my compass
insides finally aligned

my muscles released with my breath
my body, limp
and although i did not stir

i felt us moving forward