William-Adolphe Bouguereau
Color of ginkgo, maybe
citron: puffed sleeves
I notice first. Then her sideways
acid look. An ungloved hand
props up the other,
gloved, hand.
Whether she’s set to take
the lone glove off
or roll the missing one on,
it’s all invitational:
her blank décolletage.
Picture the coup, the lure
of unfinished action.
No necklace.
No background.
Except for the black sky
or unlit parlor, who knows
where this is happening?
I’m doing what history warns us
not to, inserting myself
in the frame, so that her
bloodless smile has little to do
with neoclassical beauty
but the second before,
or after, a crime. She regrets
nothing. I regret less
and less. In a parable of love
a brute steps into an orchard.
Doesn’t come back. Once
a woman with opaline skin
wore a malarial dress.
Fingers cocked like a gun.
Whether she took the lone glove
off or rolled the missing one
on, the painting is fabling
a crosswind in the trees.
© Karen Rigby
First published in Poetry Northwest.
Visit the painting at WikiArt.