Dream of a Summer Night When he paints you can’t tell whether he’s asleep or awake. He must have an angel in his head somewhere. Picasso, on Chagall They are both asleep, the woman in white and the horned beast. Like any newlyweds fresh off the altar, their eyes resist the world, its lawns ripe with fruit trees, its skies rife with vermilion angels. And yes, it’s possible this is love, their hands are so careful—his, flat against her gown’s white shoulder, nowhere near her breast; hers, holding a fan, half-shut, across their proximal groins. They have not yet wakened. Cheek to jowl, they stare through the sudden abrasion of symbols, into each other’s separate flesh, asleep an (approximate) million cells apart. He is, recall, a beast. Gentle of eye, true, but the eye’s too big and the horns are a dead giveaway. They’ll waken soon. But first, the hands will be still a moment longer inside the dream of (approximate) bliss, the eyes will close completely… When they wake, they’ll wake afloat in inhabited sky. This is Chagall; where else could they go? They’ll wake. Creatures in red cloth will hover. They’ll breathe gold air. A small green man with a violin will turn. And the earth. And, each to each other, (slowly slowly), their oh-so-different flesh. Marjorie Stelmach Marjorie Stelmach has published five collections of poetry, most recently Falter (Cascade). Her work has recently appeared in the American Literary Review, Boulevard, Florida Review, Gettysburg Review, Hudson Review, Image, New Letters,Tampa Review and others. She is the recipient of the 2016 Chad Walsh Poetry Prize from The Beloit Poetry Journal. She lives in St. Louis, MO.
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October 2024
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