The Old Artist Thinks of Lemons
A poem of longing for a forbidden muse
The astonishment of imagining lemons —
Because so easy to picture so many
Fragile effects.
A white bowl, their juice
Seems to glow around them
From light focused on their skins.
So strangely simple to paint well
What should be so difficult.
Her in lemon light:
A watercolor of her would run
As in lemon paintings
When he was carried away
With transparency.
Why so easy to believe in
Kissing her without guilt?
They could shock each other
With the painlessness
If she is old enough to expect pain.
Pale skin, violet under eyes . . .
He could put his hand right through her,
Her youth, his wife
Never seeing!
The bottom of lemons
Curving up into visibility,
Their pores popping highlights . . .
They would speak hushed of the fear
Of things that surprise
With lack of pain.
Bathing the girl,
Touching her with water.
