You’ll find the Pièta d’Avignon at the bar
clutching a telegram from her husband
the cretin of Panama—
“dying of yellow fever beside the canal.
All hope, everything in pieces”
—received that afternoon
with an aplomb that startled Facteur Cheval
and those folks along his route
he stopped to gossip with.
They all know her almighty craving for absinthe.
Why don’t you go ask the frayed,
orange hem of her skirt
to put out your glowing coals?
Talk of ardor and mother’s love
as the widow downs yet another highball
aerostat Ichor.
She nods off, in her cups—
ash gray as you paint the exotic
landscapes with words, your impressions
of Annamite villages along the Mekong
at 1200 meters.
You take her hand, take her outside
for a breath of fresh air
but—strong as you are, and eloquent—
nothing you say or do can lift her
gaze or shadow from the ground.
