Bohemia

Thursday
I wear a vintage red dress and fishnets with scarlet peonies woven through my ebony hair. Bess, the landlord’s daughter, you whistle lowly when I meet you in the worn and faded grand foyer. You rob me of my breath. The highway man came riding… You love the old peeling walls and ratty sweeping curtains dense with magic and make-believe, passion and tragedy. I breathe you in, the scent of green tea leaves and rain. Finding our seats; excuse me and thank you so much. Our fingers plait together, pressed between my crossed thighs. Your fingertips graze me softly. I know my place in the world. The lights fade and the audience collectively sighs, hush.

Tuesday
A yellow fibro house by the lake with a scallop-edged awning and two uneven wicker chairs facing the water. The bathroom has a claw-footed porcelain tub that you fill for me with hot water and tendrils of wild vines laced with white flowers. You wash my back with circles of pomegranate-scented soap and press white petals against my skin. Reflections of dappled sunlight dance across your face, at the mercy of the lake water’s tide. Lying on grass in tangerine afternoon light, wearing over-sized sunglasses, I rub coconut oil into my skin. I watch you with your canvas, tying and trapping the moment under your paintbrush. I understand poetry in motion.

Sunday
A Parisian morning of roasted coffee beans and warm croissants, of crisp bacon, flat pancakes and cream. Lace and silk and soft cotton bedsheets, tumbling and stumbling to the fragile rasp of Nina Simone; then you happened, this feeling that possesses me. The world turns under a ceiling of lemony sunlight and powdery skies. Golden licks of crackling fire. Ruby toenails. The warmth of skin stained with gardenia and sandalwood. Through the windows we watch the shifting pantomimes of clouds from our tangled, twisted magic carpet that bears the scent of knowing where hidden treasure lies.

Wednesday
The roof above us is made of stars. Pewter, rust and amber, they fall one by one from bare branches against a white sky. As the decaying wheat-coloured grass catches in the sun it is lit spun gold. You press your long fingers against ivory keys, your warm honeyed notes eliciting from my limbs a slender dance of white. You watch me sway on a carpet of gold, back lit by the sun, my dress transparent in the light. Honey, come dance with me… You twirl me in a pirouette and steam tumbles from our mouths in paisley patterns against the milky air. I smile red kisses for your camera lens. You hold a bouquet of burnt autumn out to me and I throw it in the air. You capture me on Polaroid, laughing towards the sky, framed by falling gold stars.

copyright © 2008, Holly Ringland.

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