The wings of Juan Gris, spread high above the city.
The pale sky, rinsed of its morning rain, rings
clear as a pinched nerve, thawing into blue no
deeper than mist on red tea, a single vapor trail
symmetrical to the devious river below, brideing beneath
each bridge and quick as a cat, on moss, in shadow.
Years and years ago, soon after the riots and long
before the purge, one could have stood on this spot
and looked up to see a man in a golden loincloth,
arms like Jesus at the bitter end,
strolling a tightrope strung between the spire of La Rosalie
and the secular balcony of a Rothschild penthouse.
At ground level, his pretty daughter, all floss
and spangles and sun-sloshed, barebacked youth,
urging a pony into figure-eights, demanding applause
with high sweet cries and arms flung wide like Daddy’s.
Where did they go and why did he not go with them?
Juan Gris spreads his wings high above the city.
Bask in the moments between cuckoo and swan,
the shelter of space and light, untouched for now,
the painter busy with his public, the politics of décolletage
and blush, the flatteries his brush will tickle into life,
a filler of freckles and beauty spots, a mole
upon the model’s shoulder dabbed pigeon blue
to echo not her eyes but a homelier currency,
amnesia doled between her eager lips until she brims,
that carousel dizziness he will remind her isn’t love,
both of them paid by the hour, paid by the act.
Apollinaire? he asks and receives a twinkle,
a ginger bite of recognition, the sexy reward
of a smoky shrug, and tries again, dainty
cigarette papilloned just out of reach.
Huidobro? gets him nothing, Mayakovsky? even less,
and though she’s now bored she plays along
her wild affectionate guess. The first a brand of shoes,
the crazy second, could it be a drink?
The atelier has lost the morning sun, the walls
and half the floor asleep with shadow, the
sills jaundiced with a heavier, less stunning light.
She puts her clothes back on and quizzes simple things:
their names, their function, their cost, their place
on the list of things he loves, could not bear
parting with, although he parts with her each
Tuesday at a quarter past, each Friday at dawn.
Am I as pretty as her? she pouts at the lilac envelope,
one nipple not quite cupped in cotton, black hair poised
to cascade when he’s completed her buttoning up.
She is, he says, allergic to the Roussillon, so why pursue
the obvious? You’re here, she’s there, let’s grab a coffee.
He tells her another story about Madrid, the stone angels
that line the gravel gardens, a new story he makes up
on the spot, delighting her into laughter with his
somber elephant face, the exuberance of his erotic asides,
the compliments he lavishes for no good reason.
The light behind her, the rose and lemon pastries
orderly on Moorish silver, the blue hills beckoning
beyond the staves of ancient orchards, how much
time remains, how many hours can his pure heart waste?
Juan Gris oversees the sleepers crowding his sketchbook,
between the waterproof covers that close like wings.
A dream seeps through the heavy pages, the pencil
lines thicken like arteries flush with blood,
fragments of bodies (his forearm, his foot ; her buttocks,
her neck) wait their turn, patient with the possibility
that weather will erase them, dust distort them,
failed love and poisoned passion render them obsolete.
Am I? she asks, and smiles at the silent joke,
allowing him to press that shushing finger to her lips.