Painting Gala Poem by Silvia Curbelo

Gala in childhood. In rain.
In white garments. On a train
with a book and a suitcase.
Gala with swans, untouched
by sadness, feathers
tumbling from her mouth.
Without shoes. With a glass
of warm milk, sitting
crosslegged in the garden chair.

Gala in a taxi. In sleep.
In love with silence, her good
friend, her confidante,
and behind her left shoulder
the road. A madonna,
a bird, a many-
ringed thing like a tree
trunk. Windblown.

Sullen as a starfish.
Marooned, a beached
thing, moonlight spreading
the great satin sheet of her dreams.
Her pillow licked by flames.
The nightgown burning. Torn loose.
Rising like smoke, like Gala

in her suit of lights. So many
stars in her arms, so many
dead leaves. Gala with stormclouds.
In freefall. With pearls in her lap
and blood money in her fist,
a sudden loneliness

in the folds of her green dress.
So many untold distances
unfolding from her
whispering fingers. Awash
in sunlight. Lounging poolside
with a paper umbrella in her drink.
Swallowing every wish.


First published in American Poetry Review.