PRAYING MANTIS WIDOWED BLACK

A diva doused in deep scarlet diamonds, emerald eyes framed by black and ivory sable, hair electric-blue; a Da Vinci etched upon marbled cashmere, I watch her shimmer just as the horizon of a vain-glorious Fourth of July will do.

She sways with the earth’s rhythm as our elevator falls free from the top of the world. Between heaven & hell I fall in love. I feel shame at being no one she will ever love … even if she were human. Even if she could love, I’m nothing to her.

I flash back to the ghetto I was branded by. Blank-eyed, my head drops down below a mucky sea. Tilting sideways, I slip on inconsistencies. 

My perspective brutally shifts. I’ve a hawks eye view of Hades and Heaven; Fifty-Thord & Third Avenue. I loved this place when it was mine. My corner. I was a grown man by the time I was fourteen years of age. If she knew my secrets would she understand? She isn’t human. So I doubt it.

Upon the littered streets of Chelsea, the pier. Sheridan Square, Christopher Street and the Trucks, lay debris, detriment & minced miniature genitalia of yesterday’s used-up action figures greeting, “Good morning” in limbo through hazey, petrol-glazed, excremental eyes. Limbo is lucky. It could be hell.

That was yesterday. You weren’t born yet. Neither was I. Today I’m living in hell. I awake with fever. Nightmares I can’t recall are trapped within my mind. I feel her inside my spine. She wills it. I hurt but screw the pain!

My fantasies fly wild. I’m higher the hawks soaring above Central Park whenever pigeons fly their loops. Here comes the sun. There’s no place to hide.

I stand outside the elevator. It closes for another ride to the top of the world. I bite my lips. I hold my tongue. I scream out loud within the condemned cathedral of my fractured soul but not a sound is heard. Only she is able hear my cry. She isn’t listening. She doesn’t care. I wonder if she knows she isn’t human.

PRAYING MANTIS WIDOWED BLACK written by SCOTT UTLEY