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"..." - Poem

“…”
After Roy Lichtenstein

The most difficult beautiful thing I think to paint would be dots marching in a cartoon panel. The tiny inestimable dots carve my eyes and silently leave me between “Ohhhh” and “don’t know.” When I turn the page, you called me, “Hello…” You speak a dot, a dot of a single drop of soy sauce on a silk blouse while I eat a California roll alone, and your salmon is dried out on the summer green plate. My finger smutches a slice of pink ginger, ga-ri in Japanese. That I remember.

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