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Aquarius

W. Dontā Andrews

Out of the water he walked,
an unfortunate expression on his face.
He stared forward, but the expression was directed at you, or me, or...

The three ponds were quiet around midnight,
and nothing preceded, or announced, or made room for him.
Behind the large evergreen I watched.
The top ice cracked, and there appeared the crown of a head,
suspiciously similar to my own.
Then shoulders, then back, then feet,
then what should have been my retreat, but I stayed.

His body was blue, aqua,
and I did not know if it was actually blue, or just the astonishing moonlight.
Out of the frozen pond, across the frosted grass, and into the street,
I followed behind.
Tucked beneath one large arm and gripped in one large hand was a stone vessel,
one fat, one thin,
full of the freezing pond water.
The water hopped and jumped, splashing to the ground,
shavings and sheets of ice sliding and falling to the pavement,
though the vessels were never any less full.

The wind can bite in that month, bite like a dog, in that freezing month.
That month, designated for the history of black people,
and also for the red and pink-hearted, un-suffocating love between two people.
Ironic; the history of black people, the love between two people.
But nothing was red or pink then, only blue.
Blowing visible blue breath, a cold blue night, under a bright blue moon,
whose light was so dashing, it flattered you.

His legs moved slowly, fluid, though I could barely keep up.
But I walked behind, followed, marveling at the inexplicable familiarity,
and also fearing it.
The water splashed, causing spots of pavement to look scrubbed.
Muddy and broken leaves, left by the previous autumn, were washed clean.
I followed him up hills, down streets, through neighborhoods.
Everything, all of it, looked like somewhere I had been,
somewhere I was, or somewhere I was hoping to go.
He poured water from the vessels in front of everything, purposefully,
and yet they remained forever full.

At an intersection, street lines running oddly through the middle,
no cars to be seen or heard or imagined, he stopped.
Beyond the double yellow street lines, there was chaos,
contrasting the silence on the other side where I stood.
Chaos on the other side; endless stop signs and lights, blinking, flashing,
reds, yellows, greens, yields, round-a-bouts,
and fork, after fork, after fork in the road.
He stood with his back to me, and then he turned to me,
and of course he was me.
Not me, but me...a blue, slower moving, more concentrated, more fluid me.

He looked at me, poured icy water from the bottomless vessels,
and looked at me with my own face.
The water splashed and sparkled in the moonlight, but nothing crossed the yellow lines.
I looked at his face, my face, my better face.
He was me, but not me.
For he was not my age, he was the age, the sign

I stared into my own wiser eyes, unblinking in cold wind.
What do you want me to do? I asked.
This...
Follow you? I asked.
Follow you...

Violently backhanded by understanding, I stood on the quiet side of the yellow lines,
afraid of the chaotic side, but also excited, almost ignited by it.
I stood by myself, with myself, with him,
and he chatted with me for a short time, and a lifetime, about the other side of the lines;
about what to expect from my sign,
about the smooth circles and bloody squares of life,
about the fiction and the truth of love,
about the dumbstruck reality of hate,
about the gift and the curse of my confidence,
about my unpopular disgust with drama,
about my willingness to diagnose a phony,
about the ones who would break their necks to land me,
about the same ones who would never understand me,
about my unconscious tendency to control,
about the assumption people think the way I do,
about disregarding what is expected,
about rage I would provoke by being me,
about not giving a fuck what they think.

Is that Aquarius or me? Aquarius? Or me?
Asking the question aloud made no waves,
as it was drowned out by the chaos on the other side of the lines.
I stood by myself, on the other side, really by myself, knowing the answer to the question
was only another question.
What is the difference?

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