Straightening Flower Fields
I’m sure Gustav Klimt never meant for the couple
in his masterpiece, “The Kiss,” to be lying down.
The painting, which has inspired millions
of replicas on posters, pendants, pillows,
phone covers, post cards, puzzles, even masks
in the present pandemic—shows the famous
pair in a passionate embrace in a compact
kneeling pose.
But in the assisted living facility where we visited
my husband’s mother to arrange her hospice care,
right there in the hallway leading to her room,
the iconic couple was posed horizontally.
Someone had hung the picture sideways.
And they weren’t the only ones with their frame
out of kilter that day.
His mom was also horizontal, completely bedridden.
That was fragrantly wrong, too.
Instead of being able to happily chop onions,
blend spices, or stir batter in her own well-stocked
kitchen—cooking had been her lifelong passion,
only five years before she’d invited us to enjoy
her own home-cooked Thanksgiving meal—now
Styrofoam containers of food appeared in her room.
Her boxed lunch sat uneaten by the bed, getting
cold, so I tried feeding her, dropping small bits
of spaghetti noodles into her waiting mouth,
like feeding a baby bird. After a few bites,
protests of “I’m not hungry” halted further
progress. When I asked if the sauce tasted good,
her expression, like the flower-laden female
in “The Kiss,” said it all. Except it wasn’t pleasure.
Before we left, my husband helped me
straighten Klimt’s world-renowned painting.
After all, generations of art critics, students,
and lovers, have all admired the gold-bedecked
duo kneeling in a glorious field amidst
a riotous explosion of color.
As we drove home, however, thoughts
of the anonymous picture hanger lingered.
Could his impression have been correct all along?
Maybe Mom’s upright season was ending,
and the time was approaching for her to lie
in a fragrant field of blossoms.
And if whatever lies ahead is anything like
the flowery haven of bliss Klimt created,
who was I to try to straighten it?
Wow. I have visited so many in such places. My mom included. And the pace of this poem, the spareness, the bareness, the waiting for the eternity of it all. Contrasted with the blaze of colour that is the gold and life of the Klimt ... the last line ... a punch to the gut and an understanding of the tide of life. This poem will haunt me.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful ekphrastic poem!
ReplyDelete