Ceiling Light
We were watching Houses of the Holy and the ceiling light wouldn't shut off.
I know because I kept turning it off and then it showed up again in my periphery.
Back on.
And David Foster Wallace was there. And Anthony Bourdain. And Charlie Parker.
And Brian Jones.
And Sylvia Plath.
And Hart Crane.
John Berryman was there too, but his face was unsettling so all of us tried not to look at it.
There were fish swimming around Hart Crane.
And Sylvia Plath gasped.
And there were dogs circling Dave.
And Brian Jones dripped on the carpet.
And Anthony sat quietly scribbling in a notebook.
And I sat there pretending like none of it was happening.
I was smoking and thinking of Aleister Crowley and wishing I was somewhere else.
And Billie Holiday stepped out of the bedroom. I remember hugging her. I remember dropping to my knees, my chest heaving.
I remember thinking my heart might stop or shatter. She smelled like gardenias and smoke.
I wept and when my tears hit her feet, she touched the top of my head,
lifted me up, and cupped my cheeks in her hands.