Negative Space

Each morning during first period
I sat in the art studio
and watched my boyfriend
pass by, walking from the parking lot
down to the main building.

The windows were made of ice cube glass,
so his form was blurry, but I knew
the shape of his body, the way it moved,
the colors of his high school jacket.

Sometimes he waved,
sometimes he gave a faint nod,
trying to be cool in front of his friends.

Sometimes, if he was mad at me,
he wouldn’t look at me at all,
or he’d look at me with no gesture.

That’s what really killed me—the recognition
without a recognition,

the way I could see through the glass
but only a vague image.

Womanhood was coming for me—
my armpits sweating, the rest of me shivering,
my body teaching me how to house
both positive and negative space,

like the drawings I would start in the
dark room with the overhead projector,
enlarging a face to the desired size
so I could trace the outline.

Free hand drawing was never my strength.
I wanted to spend my time not on the shape,
but inside of the shape:

the shades and shadows,
the slopes and fissures,
the way the light would hit a thing
and leave darkness on the other side.