for Karen Bentivenga
Sometimes in the heat of the snow you want to cry out for pleasure or pain like a bell. And you wind up holding each other, listening to the in-between despite the abyss at the edge of the table. Hell. Mulgrew Miller plays like a big bad spider, hands on fire, the piano trembling like crystal, the taste and smell of a forest under water. The bartender made us a drink with butterfly wings and electric wire. Bitter cold outside, big silence, a whale growing inside us.
Copyright © 2011 by Pablo Medina. Reprinted from The Man Who Wrote on Water with the permission of Hanging Loose Press.