Dear Galatea
by Danielle Cadena Deulen
1. words arenât my business, baby. i deal in images. my dreams arenât even stories, more like long dusty-going-nowhere road from above, swing down over it, fast forward into dusk and a dead end. youâre in blue light. i ask whatâs wrong. an owl lands on your shoulder so i walk up but not too close: i know it bites. pan left and down to the card in your hand. now the card in the dirt. itâs number thirteen, picture of a skeleton with a sword. pan up to your face, blurred like watercolor. donât mean to make you feel bad, itâs just the way i see. maybe you canât see it cause your gig is with words. you can argue all you want about which art is higher, but an image translates itself. no sexless bald guy in tweed and glasses fucking up the phrasing. take that photo of us on a break during the first shoot. anyone who sees it says damn i know how things are gonna go. iâm over your left shoulder, out-of-focus, smoking, looking at you through the smoke. your head is tossed back, your mouth open. youâre holding up a skinny glass in center frame like youâre giving some hilarious toast, laughing your pretty head off for a bunch of invisible people and iâve got this look like whatâs so goddamned funny? 2. donât even try to revise us. what happened was real and you know it. you canât thumb past me like some encyclopedia entry: âpygmalion: a guy in new york i used to hang with until he got obsessed and i had to lose his number.â yeah. thereâs a dust storm outside been ripping names right out of peopleâs minds. maybe you think you can wrap a few myths in your degree so i wonât get what youâre saying. well, i can call you galatea if you want, but she never had it so good. surprised? i have another shocker: i did another portrait of you. this oneâs invisible. except to people who can to paint. like poetry. oh, donât worry, iâm writing an essay on what it looks like to me. iâll publish it in some obscure journal online. i already put the painting in your room, over your bed so it can watch you sleep. itâs interactive. it changes positions when you do. so it changes a lot. i had to get it out of my house cause it kept asking me who i was. said it knew my face from bad dreams. my shape was familiar but colors all wrong. said i should put on a black shirt or build a fire in the yard, then it could know for sure. you want me to be your villain, baby? you want me to tie you to the railroad tracks? iâm not the one who put you out in the rain. iâve been calling you home from day one. 3. fuck its 5:48 am i wish i could sleep. just ate a cupcake and drank some water. a number lit up on my phone, thought it was you so i called it back, wasnât you. i wonder if your account is bust and this is some dude iâm spilling my guts to. iâm so screwed. god you know that effect when you cry in front of someone and they just blink. thatâs it: blink. fucking sun is going to come up soon. i need a prescription of ambien, or something that will keep me from pouring my mind (tall glass pitcher, mind-ice-tea). i forget the cause and effect of things, what part was mine. i need to know if youâre ok. or if i should bury my keyboard, phone, address, and rather poor skill of telepathy, erase myself from those bad dreams youâre having. black shirt off. heh. i wrote a few drafts of letters & saw a thread through them: (black thread from the corner of the shirt you pulled untilâno that was someone else. i donât know the color of your voice anymore. it used to be red like the roses i sent and you sent back) i never asked what you wanted. i didnât want the truth or even to consider it. i wrote that i know and am ashamed of these things now. in one draft i told you how i memorized all of the items in your room. in another i told you iâve been diagnosed with something that makes me hold onto pieces because it scares me too much to let them go. in one draft i said everything you said about me was true, but erased it because i was afraid that would make it true. on one page i listed dark reasons you said i wouldnât love you, then i wrote darker reasons why youâd never love me. my list was longer. i tried to tell you how sweets taste sweeter at sunrise. but the last lines were always the same: i know you think i tried to sculpt you into something you werenât, but to me, the real you was the one i loved and the art just a reflection of that ideal. 4. light bulbs have a hard time with meâbeen blowing out when i walk by. occasionally streetlights do it too, but flicker back after iâve passed. this bothers me. if only I knew how to harness this, it would be a new way to impress, or at least a good trick when small-talk starts its decent for the runway. as far as feelings go, just pretend your whistling and you'll do fine. i really don't have anything further to say âcause it doesnât matter anymore. i used the energy already. it's done. you can see the entire show, minus a few paintings, at the detroit metro airportâthey bought 9. so i guess i should say thanks for the inspiration (usually staring out an airplane window is just only that). most people at the show thought it was about a vacation (insert laugh track). the first painting to sell was the red blur off the taxi-light in the rain, then the one of you riding down the metro elevator, and so on. funny, a lady deciphered the order and what it was about, but she was the only one. the paintings were titled one to fourteen. cool how no one got an explanation, so everyone created elaborate concepts. i like how you put the stuff that went down between us. it's so unaccountable it fascinates me. if i were younger i would write a book or a movie, cause it's good stuff, especially from my p.o.v. (man the scene alone in front of the White House was beautiful). i don't think itâll change anything to reiterate how funny perspectives are. nor do i feel iâm going to create equilibrium with you. i know when you pull the light switch trick there are only two ways of looking at things: on or off.
Danielle Cadena Deulen is a poet, essayist, and podcast host. She is the author of three books and a chapbook: , which won the Book Contest, American Libretto, which won the Chapbook Contest; , which won the and the ; and , which won the and the . Her honors include an , an Individual Excellence Award, and a Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellowship from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She is co-creator and host of â,â a literary podcast and radio show. She is an assistant professor for the graduate creative writing program at in Atlanta. You can find out more at the .