After Caravaggio
This morning, the Cardinal
came for your portrait.
I kept him waiting
until he banged his stick on the floor.
Your madrigal haunts me,
'je vous aime et je vous adore… je fus vôtre'
and it thunders home
that I will live alone now.
I mix pigment with walnut,
grind the coarse grains
into the oil with oxen strength
as if an apprentice again.
With thin strokes,
I tease out light from the shadows,
coat your skin with flesh
and reveal the curve of your jaw.
I shape your nipple
into a pink rose - conceal it
under the folds of your tunic
so that it remains mine.
I recreate every detail -
the bite of your lip,
the lustre in your eyes.
This time, I paint you to perfection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem