Above the Town
Sometimes I like to pretend we’re Chagall
and Bella, flying like kites above the town,
afloat in air like sea. Yes, the painting’s fairly
water-like, greens, grays, blues, Bella’s hair
buoyant, her arm drifting, her black gown
pulling down at the throat. And Chagall’s
arm around her, his leg outspread—he’s pulling
her ashore. God, he is. She has drowned,
you can see she’s gone, her flat unblinking stare,
and his eyes are ringed with gray. There,
can’t you see? He jumped in when he found
her floating, her seaweed black hair, the pall
of her alabaster skin. Without him, she’d fall
to the town below. Fueled by overpowering
grief and love, he transforms water to air,
that’s all he can do, I see now, just barely
hold on. Now I see a grave in the sky, down
and up reversed. One of us will die first.
–kate evans