PAiNTING POEM: THE WOMAN IN GLOVES by SALVATORE BUTTACI

 

 

 

I have not  blinked an eye

since his train left Paris!

Outside the compartment window

this moment finds him, I'm sure,

staring, too:

the white stone farm houses

and the rows of trees rushing

backwards in pale-green blurs

as if pulled back by time's cruel hand

or by the hand of a sulking child

who takes his toys away and goes home.

 

The simile does him justice.

Still another simile comes to mind:

Jacques the spoiled child;

Jacques the unforgettable melody

nagging at my memory.

 

But then it pains me to admit

among the playthings he's taken with him

are velvet-soft pieces of my heart,

summer sighs, my promises,

the gifts I gave him on love afternoons,

all those dreams.

 

In the garden now it is raining

as though what is left of me

cries out like a poetess imploring

the elements to mourn with her.

 

Or perhaps the pelting rain is not a weeping

but a beating down, a thrashing of 

another child--the one deep inside me

who slashes back  with darkest crayons

all that only a day ago was a work of heart,

now an amulet devoid of powers.

She cuts away at life beyond this garden,

slashes the beating pulse of our villages 

that fade from Jacques's speeding train,

that fade like the memory of Jacques's 

heartbeat beneath his shirt.

 

Did I mention today was to be our wedding?

Here in this beautiful garden?

He had said a morning ago,  

"Wear your dancing dress!  And, yes,

your favorite hat with the white dove

feathers.  Of course, you must wear those 

gloves, Madeleine.  They make you look 

so much like a lady of royalty!"

 

But the hour on the giant railway clock

came in its rightful time,

then ticked and tocked away

until I finally knew

he would never come for me.

"Jacques is gone," 

spoke my smallest voice 

in the din of the railway crowd.

 

I have not batted an eye despite the tears.

My soul is quiet, an empty place.

I think to myself:

Jacques will not be here to see 

the turning of the leaves.

At the pond he will never make jokes again

about how our faces ripple grotesquely 

in the  reflection of the water.

Paris is a beast that will devour him.

Here there is nothing left to mirror now.

 

                      #

 

 

The above poem first appeared in my book Impressions: 13 French-Painting Poems (Saddle Brook, NJ: New Worlds Unlimited), 18-21.

 

 

Salvatore Buttaci’s two collections of flash fiction 200 Shorts and Flashing My Shorts are both published by All Things That Matter Press and are available in book and Kindle editions at http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet 

 

His new book If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems

 

Buttaci lives in West Virginia with Sharon, the love of his life.