House Painter for a White Heart

I had known a man

for whom women were like strings

a knot instead of head

a knot instead of belly

sometimes confused between one and the other

tightening the knots faster

unwinding them minutely

until the thread was soft and straight

passing it between his fingers

according to his mood

he was dyeing it with nail polish

or typographical ink

 

if it was raining or snowing

he wasn’t able to throw them away

wrapping them in recycling wax

putting fire over them

they were burning like vigil lamps in a salt mine

gray drops dripping from the ceiling

until the sky was clearing up

 

I have never met any man like that

boasting he can cry

every time he wished for