~Henri Matisse
When I got the color red—to be sure, I don’t know.
I find that all these things. . . only become what they
are to me when I see them together with the color red.
~Henri Matisse
Time has stopped here, just as madame
is paused, still rearranging oranges and lemons
in her compote bowl. Only a faint pencil
line demarks the border between table
and wall; everything the same fabric:
red of aged bricks scrolled with blue arabesques
and vases of flowers and fruits. Terra cotta
rolled from his brush with the heat of a wild beast,
spilled from wall to table to floor.
The room vibrates with blood.
Outside the window frame, there’s a green
meadow dancing with marguerites
and flowering trees. While inside the red
room, it is still. The table is set, the clock
has wound down. Nothing moves
or breaks the spell, except this hot liquid,
arterial spill.
—
Also published in Some Glad Morning, Pitt Poetry Series, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2019
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