Dating Down Read Free Page B

colorful sounds.
    You, dear red,
    start and stop my head
    What’s he doing?
    What’s he thinking?
    Is he thinking of me?
    Not thinking of me?
    Do you know, sweet blue?
    He’s not thinking of me!
    Is it true?
    Oh, brown,
    turn my thoughts around
    He’s thinking of me. It must be!
    But, if it’s not true—
    I’m back to blue
    Am I on his mind at all?
    And if so,
    sm will he call?
    Oh, pink ,
    I can’t help but think
    he will call.
    But where will he be?
    what will he wear?
    what will he say?
    Oh stop me, green,
    from wondering
    what he’s doing
    right now. Is he
    walking
    talking
    eating
    breathing
    sleeping
    or …
    Round and round with
    blue
    brown
    pink
    green
    red.
    Colors, crisp in my head
    my therapy
    I, the painter
    live the paint
    b r e a t h e the artist’s
    life.

Dad
    Lost in brushstrokes,
    I jump when Dad lowers the “noise”
    coming from my laptop.
    He sits on the edge of my bed
    sm watching me sm studying me sm judging me
    the usual.
    Dad: sm Your art finals?
    The don’t you want to be more than a painter?
    sound in his voice.
    I nod and
    continue painting.
    Silence sits.
    I could count on one hand the
    number of times
    he has said he’s proud of me and still
    have enough fingers left
    to hold a cup of coffee.
    I run a stiff stroke of cyan across the canvas.
    It rests there like a lie waiting for truth.
    Dad: sm Finished your homework?
    I nod and
    continue painting.
    Dad: sm Don’t you have a chemistry test this week?
    Stroke stroke.
    Stroke stroke.
    Dad: sm Have you studied for that? Chemistry’s essential
    for your SATs.
    Stroke stroke.
    Stroke stroke.
    He leans back on the bed, gets
    comfortable enough to take on a lecture.
    Dad: sm Your mother and I …
    She’s not my mother .
    Dad: sm … saving for your tuition …
    Dad: sm … sacrifice …
    Dad: sm … don’t want to muck that up, do we?
    Me: sm I studied, Dad.
    Dad: sm That’s my girl.
    Pause.
    Only time he’s in my life
    is to lecture me. Not like it used to be
    with Mom.

    The time before
    cancer
    funerals
    elections
    Queen Vanilla—
    just us.
    Blending the cyan with peach, I paint something pretty
    something sweet
    like the hands of a father
    held out
    holding his daughter.
    Dad: sm Who was that boy who walked you home yesterday?
    Me: sm Someone I met studying.
    Dad: sm Seemed a little old for you, don’t you think?
    The politician’s tone taints my portrait.
    Stroke stroke.
    Stroke stroke.
    Never argue with a debater .
    Stroke stroke.
    Stroke stroke.
    Me: sm Don’t worry … head’s screwed on … it’s okay …
    His contorted expression relaxes a bit.
    A bit.
    His phone beeps.
    The usual check-in from Miguel.
    Suddenly he’s distracted,
    engaged in Miguel’s message.
    Dad: sm Well, keep your nose to the grindstone.
    You’re a Henderson and we Hendersons—
    sm Fingernails sm across sm chalkboard.
    He rephrases.
    Dad: sm Just remember, the primary’s coming up.

Daddy’s Girl Goes
    Up in smoke
    smashed small and
    smothered smelling his pipe
    his weathered hands his
    worn watch and waiting eyes.
    DADDY’S GIRL GOES
    To the river
    writhing wretched and
    ready to catch a trout yank the line
    pull out applause see his eyes
    approving.
    DADDY’S GIRL GOES
    On his lap
    taps his leg leaning
    lanky and lurking up against
    his chest keeping emotions close to
    the vest.
    DADDY’S GIRL GOES
    Down to the ground
    grown girl to glad woman where
    whatever he says nothing
    sounds safe so …
    DADDY’S GIRL IS GONE.

The Girl
    I paint flesh tones of a girl
    asking something with her eyes
    while her legs carry her away.
    I stare at the girl
    staring back at me.
    What’s on her mind?
    What does she want?
    What does she need?
    I don’t know.
    I just paint.
    I hear the cries of another girl
    barreling into my room
    while hugging her hippo.
    Melanie stares at me
    as she sways like a