On a Painting by Degas, Known by Two Titles

Interior

In this painting, a room is solely lit
By a lamp that lights for us the painting
In which we see the room. The pink velvet
Lining of a suitcase is reflecting
Light like a fresh wound. Soon, our eyes follow
That path of radiance, to a white gown --
Non-reflective, light-absorbent, sallow --
That clings to a woman whose head hangs down.
A mirror in the background recasts our gaze,
Past a bed, to a man in silhouette
Who blocks a door and one of our ways
Of leaving the scene of the painting. Let's
Look closely, past Degas' formal concerns,
And see what else -- besides a lamp -- burns.

The Rape

That's better. Now, our eyes have adjusted
To the low light and the somber hues.
Granted, it's difficult to know who's
Thinking what. The man's face can't be trusted,
But what little we see of the womans'
Gives us a good idea why. Menace
And mystery keep us guessing, keep us
Wondering about the nature of human
Motivation. Abuse, here, is palpable,
But vague, too. Is it physcial or psychic?
Or something that's simply unspeakable?
Whatever it is, we sense a trick.
When life is fair game, and art: mostly wit --
Distinctions get blurred, but cleverly lit.

Jealousy

Listen! It's no crime --
especially
when you
see people
whose lives
look like full plates:
gravy
dripping over the edges,
mashed potatoes
on the tablecloth,
and four side dishes
they haven't
even touched . . . .

and there's you,
at the other end
of the table,
chasing one sour grape
around on your plate,
with a stolen spoon.

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