Blink with Fire
peter hung pasta from the ceiling in concentric shapes
and twisted wires into amorphous figurines in attempts
to replicate the art in the museum across town, those
installation abstractions of light and steel, rooms of
blank canvas and broken glass in piles meant to symbolize
…something, I guess, but in our small shared home on
Willow Street he’d paint and twist and glue while I wrote
poems and letters to friends in LA, Berlin, Austin, Minot,
and stared into a backyard of endless fireflies on lonely
nights up on the second floor, hidden, out of place and
time in that old river town of Beacon until I too suddenly
blink with fire and reignite my creative purpose, open
a blank page and begin as downstairs peter falls from
his step stool, his newest pasta creation shattering on the
hardwood, and after a muffled curse he picks himself up,
collects his masterwork, and begins the process again
until he gets the vision and meaning and timing just right
Author: James Duncan
Photo: Paul Bulai on Unsplash
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