Barbara Tomash
Nude in the Bath
after the painting by Pierre Bonnard
— a figure should be part of the background against which it is placed
— P. B.
narrow shoulders seen through trees
I want to talk about things at the periphery
bells sounding in water glasses
how we enter moments in pieces
not to shatter, but like syllables
spoken in a broken down tongue
to connect us in time. toujours, toujours
two legs, a hand, scumbled locus
of sex. the dog circles and lies down
dauberville, 1925, in her bath she’s halved
breathless flash, her touch, his brush
executing a mournful aria of illusion
beauty we come to shun; body a device
which sets off for consideration, like red
carpet roses, our infatuation with this world
saturday, 2:00 in the afternoon
yellow light on a stucco wall
clatter of dishes, whistling
the emptiness he liked to place at the center
one foot, not two, enters the room
and it’s his head we don’t see beyond the frame
two legs, two legs — hanging her by them
or floating useless as little mermaid’s divided tail
draft the geometry of our passing —
moment, rich empire, crumbles
laid waste by the miniscular movements
of our eyes. these concepts we insist on: when
skin is lavender water is green. through
the blue door finger leaves rub together
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