Still Life

Paintbrush poised, fruit posed to look

Splayed out and luscious, maybe a little
Exotic – a pineapple, the sexy Hawaiian secretary;
A pyramid of oranges, the balding business moguls.

Suddenly, the art gallery feels much colder: sterile,
A cemetery of colorful, one-dimensional
Headstones, wax museum of waxed fruit that speaks in garish
Tongues and languishes, hostage of a brittle glass shell.

How far below the surface does the soul live?

You saw the ballet last week, took your two daughters in pink.
But had you been busy, driving somewhere and trying to recall
The scent of that secretary’s Versace perfume as you turned
Up the volume on Yo-Yo Ma’s illumined bowing,

You would have known the feeling. Even if you had missed
The beauty of broken bodies contorted perfectly, the fruit
Of hours of pain, repetition, rehearsal on bloody toes, you would have
Questioned our role in the worship of the poised, rejected the posed idols.

How far above the stage does the heart leap?

If you were here, not holed up again with a pineapple
In some luxurious hotel suite with mass-produced still life
Seeping into the cream-papered walls, you would take note
Of the way Degas captured human perfection, aspiration, impossibility

In every frozen pirouette and bronze tulle skirt. You would
Know your admiration as a portal to enlightenment,
As a theoretical golden bubble emerging at the top of your
Head, between the brain and skull: as potential energy.

How far into stillness does the mind sink?

Michelle Eichel
March 2010