It’s Not the Day I See

    I.

    The Mediterranean tilts her shoulder,
    offers a nipple. This evening

    the pier is quiet, stacks of houses
    soften in the air, opening

    like Bonnard’s open window,
    larger than Earth. Nabi,

    a prophet, sits cross-legged
    and listens to the sea repeating itself

    into our homes by night, salty fingers and lips,
    while we answer the bells in their own tongue:

    it’s not the day I see,
    but the light held in a flowerpot, in leaves.

    II.

    Late June cherries, le rouge
    de tous les rouges
    ,

    scarlet goddess, siren color, stain.
    A chair molded from ground,

    walls stretch into a clock,
    quick brushstrokes, fourteen birds on a wire.

    I cannot sketch the contour
    of your presence, I draw

    with a fine line the frantic message of rain.
    Repeated red—a man seated, bathers, a nude—

    sculptures within the commotion.
    This will make

    a very good place to paint
    he entered the room with joy.

    (After “The Red Studio,” 1911, Matisse)




    Bio Note
      Rachel Galvin is a writer and editor for Humanities, the journal of the National Endowment for the Humanities. She has received fellowships at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and Hedgebrook. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Spinning Jenny, Mars Hill Review, Comstock Review, and Nimrod.


    Contents

     



     Rachel

     Galvin