I. SLEEPING NUDE
Almost a Frankenstein, that tall and gaunt,
shoulders, neck and head make a right angle
of his body and parallel the ceiling;
the man stands rigid above the sleeping girl
on her back, curving thighs and wide hips
up to him. The man looks angry,
as if, she, a wild animal, wandered
from the deep woods to his mattress on the floor.
But this is Paris; Nineteen oh four.
The door of dark and light divide
Picasso from his mistress. So ill at ease,
so located is he in this mass of dark,
so locked into his inability to know
or to possess this rectangle of pure light
she lies in, barely floating,
one might think he contemplates
to kill her; or kill himself. One wonders
if he is thinking of her at all.
2. MEDITATION
A thin blue shadow spills from the cup and saucer.
And also bathed in blue, Picasso, “Le Penseur”,
shifts away from the table, has been watching (we
imagine) for hours, the woman sleep. Her arms
cradle her golden face. She’s remote as a star,
and he is her only planet. His focus blurs.
Relaxing into light, he relaxes into her.
3. YOU, SLEEPING
The act, to watch you sleep, entering
your light, your light like water
how pure the feeling is! The feeling
is like swimming. A shaky intimacy,
an act of tenderness between us,
a sort of negotiation between
the body moving, and the water.
In the ocean the nightmare fish,
held whole by pressure,
(if rising to thinner waters
would explode),
anchored so deeply sunlight never
reaches them, contain their own light
a fluid electricity, a prey-attracting light,
flashing on in courtship or when danger
is near. Deepest in sleep, is this
the creature we look upon with horror
when we are most open, the most exposed?
Still, you sleep, accepting what the light
reveals about you, knowing I am watching.
You turn, you shift your weight,
you surface momentarily and the breath goes
out of me. Always be this open to me
when you are the most closed.
Leave a Reply