Читать книгу bury it - sam sax - Страница 16

PENTIMENTO

the mass-produced

painting of a field

in winter hanging

above the bed

in this west oakland

motel room starts moving

on its own inside

the faux gold frame.

it begins as always

with whiteness swallowing

the rest of the painting

in its dumb bloodslit

hunger. then as always

a pulse of the backlit

blue veins rising up

like abrasions on a pale

boy’s back. followed

by the inevitable red

riven out the snow bank

taking the shape

of a scythe or sieve

or finally a boy or the shape

of a boy growing antlers

or the shape of antlers

wherever his hands

are meant to be now.

but they’re impossible

to see in all the movement.

impossible to move

his hands & you have

to wonder how a boy

or the shape of a boy

wound up here

in this unstable field.

if only i knew the history

of art i could give you

more than the color

of the thing. i could tell

exactly what school

this painting’s in. i could

use the painter’s biography

to make sense of it

his fucked head & terrible

terrible life. i could use

expensive words to make

these bizarre gestures

tenable. i wonder

if every one of these

reprints is moving

in the same fashion?

or is it just this one

staring upside down

at a boy on his back

on a filthy white blanket

while the shape

of a strange man moves

in unspeakable ways

over my body.