"The Sweep of Bliss" by Edward Lee
Golda Grais | I wanna tell everyone I know "I love you"
after Dancing In Babylon by MGMT ft. Christine and the Queens
The sun is well on its ascent to kiss the Guadalquivir.
The perfume of the orange trees is thick in the air.
How would I explain the smell of the blossoms to him?
Redolent with promise? Honeyed on the back end?
I sit on the riverbank with Sunny and Gwen. The closeness of a month is something divine.
We ask questions about home, from there to here, and pass around a box of four-euro wine.
This taste is easy to describe. Sour grapes with a vinegar spit.
A shock to the system. So easy to welcome down my gullet.
The conversation turns to the times in our lives when love went wrong.
I craft the simple dissolution of friendship into the fall of Babylon.
I tell them about his simmering demeanor and blue beacon eyes.
His sweet smile and troublingly large collection of knives.
I am a goldfish boasting from a glass tank about the wonders of the ocean.
I am a real head sashaying through the ashes before the war has even begun.
I never told him I liked him like that. And so, he never knew otherwise.
But I could write a poetry thesis on the white spaces between the lines.
Sunny tells me to bite the bullet and confess how I feel. For the love of God, girl. Of course.
Gwen tells me listening to the new single from his favorite band is romancing the dead horse.
But what if I’m addicted to waltzing that kicked corpse along?
Or, hear me out, what if it’s also just a really good song?
Waning sunlight glistens on the water. The final refrain, I confess, cuts deep in me.
Drum kicks hit home in my sternum. I trouble the double meaning like the tannins in my cheek.
I could shout his name to the other side of this river. Or.
Sunny’s smile dents her cheeks with joy. Gwen snorts when she laughs. So easy to adore.
The sun is well on its ascent to kiss the Guadalquivir.
The perfume of the orange trees is thick in the air.
How would I explain the smell of the blossoms to him?
Redolent with promise? Honeyed on the back end?
I sit on the riverbank with Sunny and Gwen. The closeness of a month is something divine.
We ask questions about home, from there to here, and pass around a box of four-euro wine.
This taste is easy to describe. Sour grapes with a vinegar spit.
A shock to the system. So easy to welcome down my gullet.
The conversation turns to the times in our lives when love went wrong.
I craft the simple dissolution of friendship into the fall of Babylon.
I tell them about his simmering demeanor and blue beacon eyes.
His sweet smile and troublingly large collection of knives.
I am a goldfish boasting from a glass tank about the wonders of the ocean.
I am a real head sashaying through the ashes before the war has even begun.
I never told him I liked him like that. And so, he never knew otherwise.
But I could write a poetry thesis on the white spaces between the lines.
Sunny tells me to bite the bullet and confess how I feel. For the love of God, girl. Of course.
Gwen tells me listening to the new single from his favorite band is romancing the dead horse.
But what if I’m addicted to waltzing that kicked corpse along?
Or, hear me out, what if it’s also just a really good song?
Waning sunlight glistens on the water. The final refrain, I confess, cuts deep in me.
Drum kicks hit home in my sternum. I trouble the double meaning like the tannins in my cheek.
I could shout his name to the other side of this river. Or.
Sunny’s smile dents her cheeks with joy. Gwen snorts when she laughs. So easy to adore.
Golda Grais is a writer and artist from Chicago. Her works of poetry and prose have been previously published in BarBar, In Parentheses, Pink Disco Magazine, the Scripps College Journal, and the New York Times.
Edward Lee is an artist and photographer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited and published widely, with many pieces in private collections. His website can be found at https://lastimagesphotography.com
Instagram: @edwardleeart
Instagram: @edwardleeart
