I’ve been painting a still life
for weeks, not once,
a series of 5 objects:
jar, lemon, lemon slice, glass and bird.
I’ll try to be clearer:
rose-tinted water jar (half-filled),
whole lemon, sliced lemon wedge,
stemless wine glass (red),
plaster bird, the size of my outstretched
hand, which grasps a brush
so balanced and fine bristled, it extends
my fingers, arm, ribs, the pivot
of my spine as to create
the illusion of flight.
This encourages the bird,
who’s been warming the nest
of my palm, but now flits
to the turquoise scarf
near the lemon and jar
and peers out the window at a finch
trembling a branch.
What’s moves us most?
Window light pours in, shifts
this moment to the next
to the next,
arriving?
Shadows tremble like voices, like smoke.
I arrange and rearrange
where objects sit, how they relate
like I’m trying to pray,
to getA writ of divorce. Traditionally, only a man can grant his wife a get. Liberal Jews have amended this tradition, making divorce more egalitarian. the prayer right.
Maybe it’s my counting.
There aren’t 5 things here,
but also the sky-blue scarf,
white table beneath,
the window and clarity of light
it admits.
Plus shadows. Plus souls.
Plus vibrant puddles of paint that tremble
with each dip of the brush
by my frail hand, arm and ribs
each time I reach
to fly, to pray.
