the aftertaste of his pain felt like
the pain was over but it wasn’t .
like the dull burn of ginger ale
in mid thirst
it hung right there in front of him.
this one lasts – not a wound, but the scar.
“he’s blind to his ways – blind,”
thinking of his older brother.
turning to look at the sun
resting above in a rare eclipse,
Isaac mutters to himself,
“i ought to be interested in this but…”
“what say?” some girl perks,
a short focus in his direction.
he looks up at the sky again
and then down at the cuff of his shirt
it was an old shirt
perhaps worn, not torn,
but there at the heel of his hand
to him it looked torn.
it felt torn.
inside it felt torn.
“my first eclipse,” she tried again.
“I thought it would just be
a black disc,
but there’s a glowing edge
around it with those reddish jewels.
is it always like that?”
Isaac looks up again,
solar prominences they call it.”
she says packing her stuff.
“oh, thanks –
the eclipse over,
a phrase shoots up
long stuck in his past,
now as if in front of his eyes:
“i have grown much too used to
an outside view of myself,
to being both painter and model.”
he recalls from Despair.*
no more fresh reasons,
“let it be” he hears in the wind.
the aftertaste fading,
his hand gently swings the iron gate
there it is again,
the unforged edge
around an rusty fluer de lis.
“old,” (his voice within),
a common corona
on the thing occluding,
the Light still brighter behind;
first the thing and its penumbra,
then a bejeweled glowing rim.
by Mark Olivero
copyright2009. mark olivero. all rights reserved.