Poem by Savannah Alvarado // Photograph by Ira Limon
Poem by Savannah Alvarado //Photograph by Ira Limon
The lampshade crashes to the floor and suddenly I remember how expensive it was
Not the glass that has now turned my apartment floor into a bad mosaic
But the 20 minutes I spent standing in the store, convincing myself that it was worth it
That it was the exact same shade of yellow I felt in that dream where I met God
And whatever that meant then, at two in the afternoon, with $128.73 in my bank account
I let it be reason enough
When I got home later on, he asked if it was supposed to be a sun we’d revolve around late in the evening
I did not know what to say except that I could feel him gravitating away from it and us and me
And I did not know what else to do to try and bring him back other than to bring him something brighter and more beautiful and hope that, like a moth, he would kill himself to be close to it
But I did not say that
Instead, I told him that the woman working at the store said that it would look nice in our almost colorless living room
He just shook his head, told me I needed to stop believing everything I was told
He said that everyone is selling something
And in that moment, I wonder if I have bought what he is selling
Now, as I see the lampshade so clearly, bent and broken by the back of his hand, lying limp on the hardwood, the color does not remind me at all of dreams or God
It, instead, reminds me of the last time I lie limp on the same floor, crumpled by the same hand
And the color of the bruises when they finally began to heal
But then I think, maybe that is the same thing after all
