the impressionist

tray of cracked pastels, overturned, they have smudged each other –

yellow the dirtiest of them all. and in the mason jar the paintbrushes

lean with their stiff, wandering heads, avoiding the sun and quarantined.

the dead flowers snore in their vase, elephant-eared, clinging vainly to their

heirloom petals.

 

 

paint-freckled smock, a sketchbook husking and warped with watercolors

and an easel that sounds exactly like its name when it closes – the place will

smell of oil-based paint for a century to come. it will smell of scenes overpopulated

with flowers, of nude women twisting around the brush like climbing ivy, of

light reflected on the water, indistinct and unformed, like womb-bound fetuses

with the quietest knocking hands.

 

 

the subjects of the portraits, solemn and pale as blood donors, haunt

the room. and that's why in the middle of the night

you can hear the boards creaking all over the house. their painted faces,

bonneted with light and curiosity, moving among the dark rooms

with their secret, inward smiles, watching over our sleeping bodies,

purple and breathing, like old lilacs.

 

 

in the garden, where the children walk between the spindly, adoring

flowers, you can see the spot where he might have painted or sketched

every morning. in the inconsistent shade with the tulips sulking

and tight-lipped, like children who've had bad words scrubbed from

their mouths, and where the the brick wall breaks for a moment

and opens up onto the street where cherry trees are in bloom

 

 

and the blossoms intercept each other as they fall, like dancers

cutting in.

 

 

you can almost see him there,

looking up.