Yesterday the Oscars

Yesterday the Oscars. No one’s favorite movie won. Yesterday a storm grabbed the evening news and the lead story was a farmer’s voice talking about how the wind took down his barn. The radar spun into green and came back into green, over and over and I thought of the word dervish. First she tells me about a book she’s reading that’s about real life. Then she tells me she has new shoes but won’t wear them to the office because the heels are as high as her finger and thumb are apart. Outside the foliage was ardently gilt by the thinning sky of the Masters. Last night my wife said, “A car went past and it was a truck.” All night the war was inside the room with us. The newspaper said it had been in Samarra, but then it moved. The newspaper told us where but there were no maps. We dressed our conversation in the clothes she wore that day and a necklace of black jet beads and matching earrings that made her look beautiful in a way there were no words. I remember pleading with her to stop teasing me. She took her hand away and let me thrust into thin air and it was into that I spasmed while she laughed at me. After that, I stopped going to her place and now I’m sad.