We did not spend Christmas
together that year,
my husband and I, but
before he left
for wherever he was going
with the woman
who was older,
sexier, more
accomplished than I,
he brought over
such nice gifts:
a white turtleneck
(I already had one)
and a print
of a Matisse Blue Nude.
I stayed home that day.
It was cold, gray, snowless.
And because I was in fact
relieved to have him gone,
although it hurt, although
it would take me years
to understand what we both
must have known
in the deep wordless core,
the faceless woman,
blue limbs folded in a pose
that is almost yoga,
a pose he must have seen
me in dozens of times
in our few years together,
has hung on a wall
in every home
I’ve lived in ever since.
The ivory background
deepening to a pale gold –
her only sign of age.
Pompidou Center
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