Redon created me,
splashed me, gaff rigged
in proud pomegranate,
across his blue canvas sea.
Waters swirl over my stern
where my name bobs in gold.
An obscure painting,
known only by few.
But Redon, my love,
magician with the sensual brushstroke,
lover who dressed and caressed me,
you vaporized; were called
by sirens to other seas.
You did not take me.
Patrons shuffle by,
whisper of my rare, windblown beauty,
try to decipher the name on my stern.
Was there a secret love? they wonder.
I sail this sail that will never end,
flutter my pennant to their compliments,
cavort in the dancing waves.
I was his love, his lady, his spark,
my rigging yearns to scream,
but I keep Redon's secret,
as I slice through the cerulean deep.
Degas' Ghost
En pointe. Center stage front.
Her tutu is a plumed chrysanthemum,
delicately balanced on dual stems.
She traces the air with pale fingertips,
as if to memorize it as woman—
not the swan she soon will become.
We flocked to see Nureyev that night,
expected to grow damp with rapture
from fierce Napoleonic leaps,
head tilted cockily in the fury
of his futile heroic dance.
We only saw her...
This flower. This reluctant swan.
Degas white, pinned
under a dimming spotlight.
Fluttering and lifting.
Dipping and fading.
Then, abruptly, the vacant stage.
