Full Moon and Arms As a portraitist in oils Who worked exclusively on canvasses, An expert in very fine detail, I was used to lingering immensely My subjects viewed my approach As flattery, my absorption A means of divination, Of exhuming from the façade Some exquisite melange, What they could only cloudily surmise But embraced with immoveable conviction: That they were irreproducible I drew them out in time, by touches, By the penitence of waiting Till I showed them selves More powerfully than any glass It isn’t what you think: I was no panderer, They didn’t carp at wrinkles Oddities, misshapen features, My rendering the gifts of their nativity They hung my visions To feel, by gazing, Less hemmed in Which was why frescoes, The ones you insisted on dragging me to, Left me cold that day – I knew what went into them, The technique was all too much, Mixing plaster, laying it just right, and then The race to paint before it dried, The work of the great perhaps, But long past Or so I thought Outside the villa Where we sneaked away That sweltering afternoon There was just enough space Between the cypresses To glimpse the ocean’s reach As we took each other in Like yours my back was raw From the cool hard stone Of the sheltering wall, From reckless leaning And the moon’s rough cheek So close, rising To mourn, to pounce Such passing tender ________________________________________________________________________ Emanuel E. García, 2014 see here for 'visual accompaniment' |