Concerto for the Left Hand
This is the part I wanted to replay over and over until made to stop: his body falling away like some trick shot, a dissolve into a scene I could deconstruct until it was no longer pivotal, only the slow dénouement of a figure moving out of view. I wanted to watch until the window is no longer a window but a cut from an alternate ending, in which he is dancing: alone in the yard after a party and all the guests have all gone home. Some unusual soft-shoe to Daphnis & Chloé, stereo like neon illuminating the gray evening and him, dancing a marvelous circle around the mulberry like Fred, doffing berries off of his Sox cap. How he relates to the old lawn chairs, his disaffect, until he lifts them one by one and carries them into the shed like the broken lovers they’ve become. To be able to watch until the window shifts toward another season, in which it is snowing, in which we might build a fire and draw a circle around each other for safety. Our forms, latched together and present, a room somewhere, a tall building, his body wrenching into mine like a stutter. I’ve conjured the room. In it, I’ve placed blankets, a bed, his side of the bed and mine next to it, the window overlooking a street below, traffic paused for a moment, the snow coming down almost pathologically and we would not notice, would see only the flakes suspended, balletic. I’ve been unreasonable, I know I have. I’ve rehearsed a dialogue to arrive in the ideal place and not where it has appeared, on a delay, as subtitles, poor translations of another mind’s intent, the scenes shortened and out of sequence, the order unimagined and true. I’ve pictured him turning back, to come upon me like Ravel after a fistfight, reveling, the distance I perceive in his body now my own distance from it, controllable, an hour before morning, his face so near I am unable to focus so I close my eyes. It’s that simple, really it is. Here I am plotting the circle, the fire, a desire to catalogue together the snowflakes as they collide in miniature white explosions across the screen, the traffic below us, the exhaust, the city all palsy and burn, here his body still and still next to mine, not falling, not going anywhere.