I draw triangles on a blank white page.
She considers how they connect,
turn colorful, turn into something:
a life chain, a monster.
And then she goes to the window
to watch the blue and white vans
and the rain. All is slanted
and, perchance, will be over tomorrow.
I dislike my pink one in the corner,
but think about relationships instead,
the gray one on the right, how it might
be purple or green, and why love
has three sides always: the loved,
the lover, and the weather. I think to mark
a black line across the page
I’ve made. Say to her there are no angles
here, just being and becoming.
A straight line and a life beyond.
But that would be easy and wrong,
and now she’s got the window open.
She’s folded my page into an airplane
and will let it fly. The rain will take it
down, I tell her, the rain will make it
make triangles I could never draw.
Bio: Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in Posit, The Tulane Review, Badlands, The Blue Bonnet Review, and many other magazines.