T H R E E   E K P H R A S T I C   P O E M S
based on paintings by
H e n r i   M a t i s s e
 1869 - 1954

I am the young woman in the butter
yellow dress; my plump arm resting
on the checked couch, same color, the one 
the sun might take if it decided to become fabric,
lose its heat, come down from the sky.  
My hair is pulled back from my forehead, 
combed high; I look like I am ready 
to dance the tarantella in a dusty square
in Naples, where half my grandparents 
came from.  And I am also the woman 
behind her in the Scottish dress, a primary 
plaid, hair the color of shortbread, eyes the color
of tea, the other half of my DNA.  Behind us,
there’s a wall of solid red, the way I imagine
the walls of the heart must be, that thick muscle
that keeps on beating in spite of everything, 
like a faithful watch, that keeps the rivers
of the arteries flowing, bears their steady
freight. And then there’s memory, of
that other river, the one that meanders,
slips underground, reappears in a meadow
where you least expect it.  It’s a far country,
the past, and we need a passport to enter
its provinces, red oxblood with gold letters,
stamped with a blue circled visa, again
and again and again.

                                                                                  -first published in The MacGuffin

I walk into this room like it’s an open air market:
shutters, slabs of salmon baking on their terra cotta
bricks; window panes, peach and melon; trellis, 
slashes of mustard and olive.  Out of the frame,
boats sway on a candy sea, the marshmallow
sky sticky behind it, the horizon stained
with juice.  In the pots in the foreground,
peppers sizzle and burn.  Step back into the room,
love, and close the shutters; the walls are really
cool and white.  Come out of the heat of the day,
the dazzling sun.  There are just the two of us here,
no telephones, watches, deadlines, and we can make
the afternoon stretch behind the closed slats, on the smooth
ironed sheets.  The outside world clatters away, traffic
and klaxons, the blaring of horns.  The sun seethes
behind the shutters, edible, volatile.
                                                                               -first published in The MacGuffin

Delacroix said Banish all earth colors, and Matisse
took this to heart, not a smear of clay, dirt or sand
anywhere in this painting.  Anemones—red, orange, purple--
drape themselves in front of the woman lounging
on the divan, her red-striped yellow wrapper falling open.
The yellow wallpaper, too, is striped, a tiger ready to pounce.
And isn’t this the color of happiness?  Like the sun 
that lacquered the vineyards, filled the grapes, tightened 
their skins.  That glanced off the sea as we sat in the café, 
the one with the surly waiter in the striped jersey
who wouldn’t bring us bread, then brought the wrong wine.  
But the day was warm, and our lunch, when it came--
grilled sardines drizzled with oil—was just what we wanted.
We were happy in the sun on the white wicker chairs,
something blooming in my heart, anemones 
spilling from their vase.  
                                                                                                              -first published in Poet Lore