By: Lisa Marie Basile
there has got to be a can opener
somewhere in this god forsaken place
maybe it is in the porters closetor in a museum,
or somewhere public
where we may have left it à la un chien andalou,
i would like to, specifically,
hold it against your eye and clamp around the color,
and peel it nice off. my collection has seen
blue, green, blue, green
reduced to what people call art.
to me now you are just something i have hung,
you are the forgettable deer head stamped to the top of the wall.
you were right all along, your face is not worth remembering!
your face is not Sargent's whore and
it is not Courbet's stroke, it is not a bridge
becoming red with age, it is not a succubus upon the chaise longue,
it is not the hand of Gala at the windowsill.
but i can remember painting it with my finger tip.
all of you, painting all of you,
the finishing touches on the deer heads
down the hallway each a doe eyed,
a feverish eye, eyes with sorrow, lantern eyes,
all of you have become art.
it is loved still after destruction. the Courbets and Salvadors
and Sargents are remembered even when their frames burn away.
