LatinosUSA

After Roy Lichtenstein

A typical gasp.
The reverb of a dampened cry, perhaps just
a whisper to the blank sky unseen above:
I’d rather sink… With hair colored Klein bluish;
with hushed open lips not finished yet, folded in
ruby origami, closed off from the ocean’s
expanse; with closed eyes, nervous fingers.
An unfelt wreckage,
an «I don’t care!«
but just look, look at such pretty loss.
The pain is out of the frame;
the melodrama is in full view.
Typically, a gasp is due.
Another soap opera, the very picture of loss, a sea
of troubles foams before our eyes: thick-lined tear pearls
like aspirins dissolving as they drop,
not quite bubbly, about to be stirred,
gulped down and washed away,
in a stylized pulpy fiction
on a blue cushion of sleekly painted, suspended despair
for one to gape at, before moving on
to the next passion,
the next item.
A strained sigh still echoes, though.
But she does sink, and there was no Brad,
no drama, no throb.
Just beauty,
left alone.
All alone.
(Sigh!)

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