Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I Used To Paint Still Life

I used to paint food
on tables, and kitchen counters
bloody messes not yet cleansed
remnants of battles to please you
sometimes headless chickens
wings and legs spread wide
each bump on its featherless skin
a message in braille if only
you could reach across the threshold
of canvas and oil and pigment

other times it would be fruit
pomegranates kernels spilling
across the landscape
of oakwood grains, knots,
bright citrus orphans
amongst Maloideae cousins
and of course the bananas

rarely, on occasion, I'd paint
the room you left behind
the desk a mess since
you never came as a swan,
or an eagle but rather violent lightning
amidst bellowing thunder
scattering and shattering blueprints
and models of future plans we made long ago

but I forget these perspectives
have been perfected by those
with better digital dexterity
and finger choreography
Chardin had already made his mark
with a far more provocative animal
than the chicken and Galizia's peaches
are more beautiful, more ripe
soft to even look at, good at
awakening memories of the nights
when you stroked her skin
and the light fuzz beneath your fingertips
reminded you that this is not me
Peto and Harnett's depictions:
worn-out books and stained letters
often mistaken for real objects lining the walls,
strewn on top of the shelf, yet mine,
clumsy stabs at recreating
a love letter from Moab