The Rokeby Venus
She turns her back on us.
Not merely a metaphor
but a woman Velazquez knew,
with the same long curve
to the line of her back that you
have, ending in dimples paired at the spine,
where her flesh is smooth and pink as pearls dissolved
in milk.
No imaginary madrilena,
but the mistress of a marquis, Gaspar de Haro,
who mounted her portrait
on the ceiling of his secret room in Madrid,
her face blurred in the mirror
held by a perfect cherub,
so that his wife
would not know her name and could not see.
Why also turn away?
Was it shame or a debt she felt
the old man was owed or had she guessed
what held the gaze of her painter?
Like him, I almost can’t bear to breathe
before this great medallion of creamy flesh,
before this woman who called to him
even as he nailed her to the canvas.
Did he rationalize what he couldn’t deny
and that is why he painted her
from behind, turning her back just in time
as if to say goodbye?