Page 54 - November 2020
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54
                      Litterateur
                                                                                       November 2020
                           "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"


                                                     Tom Montag















                   You walk away
                   and she calls you                                        I would take her,
                   back. She knows,                                         the woman
                                                                            in the painting,

                   and she wants you
                   to know, there is                                        into the hills
                   no going home.                                           of her childhood
                                                                            and we would lie

                   The museum will
                   close for the night,                                     among the sweet
                   yes, but that's not                                      grasses at evening.
                                                                            We would kiss
                   the end of things.
                                          Could he have painted             the flowers. The earth
                                          any other young woman             would forgive the sky

                                          from the neighborhood?            the coming darkness


                                          Would they have posed             and we would find
                                          naked in their kitchens           our solace among
                                          the way she has?                  the scheming stars.


                                          Would they have blushed
                                          just that right touch
                                          of color at her throat?


                                          Would their darkness have
                                          been the mark of their
                                          symmetry the way hers


                                          is? Would they have sung
                                          the day, as she does, to
                                          this glowing stillness?
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