pompadour

After Christine Dean, Pink Monochrome (detail), c1995

Oh when I saw you there
your little eye wounded
in monochrome, proud texture

the translation said soft
but that wasn’t quite right
there was give, and then the draw

when your voice came through
soundless, a memory, desire
pink, yes, but not the way you put

circles of rouge
on a white canvas, grieving
what was to come.

I used to think of beauty in rigid ways
cascade of hair, a tight curve
shapes and dreams.

The way your strength was held
taut against a gilt mirror
invisible beneath layers of paint

lead, mercury, arsenic
the pull of a string, ache in the belly
formaldehyde, galena, botulism

a sharpened knife, a knife, a knife
a blade, the whoosh as it falls
and all your pretty silence bearing down.

Things are different now
each line is an opening, a new story
the downward shift a renewal.

Don’t talk to me of what you lost
in those last days
buckles, powder, lace

your tongue
blooming shades of blush, coral, rose
always speaking but no sound.