fernande

[constantine]

i met her in the coffeehouse, my fernande
her eyes warm and intuitive, downward cast
a cousin to my mirror's reflection
familiar, intimate
her shyness i wished to soften
to banish - not to worry
for i was, and still am, no man to fear
we talked of the arts
my poetry and her charcoals
the chiaroscuro of experience, translated
through her eyes and hands, her fingers
deftly embracing - clinging, catching
the essence hidden beneath the flesh
white next to my darkness
cool next to my warmth,
expressing what i fear
the foolish protection of the heart, as if
there was time to spare or waste
when there never is
and i lived
for those moments in the studio
the nights we would share in the loft,
when darkness was not the soul of melancholy
the milieu of my despair,
but a canvas black with gesso, textured
with venus amidst the currents, an odalisque
upon her shell, and the moon halved
like a broken heart, whose counterpart
i would give to fernande,
patron saint of the poorly loved
muse of the bateau lavoir