South Clinton and Rhyme

I love soap. A nice bar of Dove soap. I could take three showers a day with the stuff. So familiar, though newly so. I also love the aftertaste of Tom's of Maine spearmint toothpaste, with its vaguely similar late 80s throwback to baseball cards packs, card and gum included, and Garbage Pail Kids. I like to take a shower before clodding over, pajama pants tucked in to socks, flopping into bed. I turn left, spinal twist, my back cracks. Everything releases. I could enjoy it more but I don't last. Five minutes earlier I was dancing around, doing a dance with no purpose, no motive, one that just fills me and I let my body go. But then I'm dreaming, red and black dreams with a white stripe down the middle. I throw my ring into the Spanish river along with the chain. Both bound, both released. The naranja blossoms harden into stone, following the pineapples' lead. Then they blend, release, soften, and turn from spray-painted almost grey with green letters. I stood strong, so young, alone near the river. Today I look out through one window, half-screened and half transparent, except for the reflection of a lamp that reveals its existence. Pinnacle Hill just past the large pine, electric and cable wires strung across the yard. Its blue with purple clouds; brilliant. Berlioz. A teepee in November is the most appropriate for today, a semi-muddy walk in Greece. A hopeful one, but tentative, pins and needles, prickly, careful. But if all could be released, and I think it can be, then it would be already. Creeping, trying, avoiding, trying to secretly maneuver the psyche as if it were an extraterrestrial behind a veil, not knowing our plans. Trying to get it out as if it were a thing as solid as a vase. A lottery ticket, torn, pasted, lacquered to curved chair with mermaid paint. A teacher who understands, lets things be, gives you a room for your pain and really leaves you alone. Now my vase is painted dark blue, with a green ribbon swooping downward and a brown one sweeping up. The inside is off-white and the whole thing is propped on lime green paper plates from summer. Below that, the one centerpiece plate from our wedding reception. I see what I have, what's right here. He lets me be, just like that teacher, but with enough involvement to gently push me forward, expressing not only what needs to be done, but learning limits, accepting them. Our names are similar but separate. We live on South Clinton and Rhyme. We pay for our laundry with plastic tokens that break. We clutter the hallways in our dreams because we are prohibited to do so in real life. We would get a note otherwise. It's good to be home and better to be wandering through Westland and No Sidewalk Street. Past the willow that looks like it has stood there before houses, before time. We venture out, and it's wild out there. Under the guise of order, and cut lawns, large piles of oak and maples leaves, the pines persist. Keeping that one space full when all else is open, open wide. The pines pierce empty space, softly, with bluish hue. Matthieu. The orange holds on, complementarily displaying what's left of the color wheel, but instead of a circle, a row by row vertical slice, getting wider, farther away.