The Lute Player Poem by Kathy Greethurst

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.