How Many Squids Did it Take? Ive heard that European Royalty once funded the crushing of miniature sea snails, all for the sake of their ink. Thousands, no millions Im sure, squished and boiled to dye the robes of indigo kings and the plum-draped shoulders of queens. I wonder how many squids had to die the Tuesday morning the creator decided to paint each of your eyebrows into existence. Their ink sacs pierced by some holy blade; the puddle collecting in a blessed bowl. I wonder too if its fingers were stained from dipping the hairs in the dye, the way of a tanner, or like some delectable Martha Stewart cooked up--dropped in a ganache or coated in a marinade on both sides, baked at an even 350 degrees. It never fails to impress me how high your brows seem to arch, like the trajectory of a rocket, or like the perfectly whipped peaks of a meringue I cant make. Sardonic and mocking, curious and irritated, they itch to rise. If you commit a sin against me, I could pick you out of a line up. The room darkened except for a streak across every mans brow. Yours would stand out against the others for their purity and their curvature-- distinctly your own. As we lay in bed, I stroke each obsidian strand, feeling them within the grooves of my finger tips like record needles, wishing, just once, that they could play the music of my heart.
Posted on: Thu, 08 Jan 2015 17:05:13 +0000
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