Blue Eyes in my Dream

Paul Newman was dying
and he wanted to go to Mexico. 
Gray formed like shingles over his face.
Hiding his eyes.
Hiding his lips.
Paul Newman grew weaker
so Joanne set up the trip.
My husband and me. 
Her. Paul.
I wanted to seduce him
in a bathroom or maybe
a motel in Texas,
this man I'd had a crush on 
since my teens,
wanted this last chance
to kiss him, to have him
kiss me, but the shingles
got thicker until Paul 
was a house, 
a house mostly roof.
I couldn't get in.
Joanne couldn't get in.
When the rain came,
Paul disappeared.
Mexico fell into the sea.
My heart turned to glass,
fell with it into the green ocean 
spume, littered with shingles, 
fed by tears, colored by want.




Pris Campbell
©2009







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