A line on a page of arabesques as it attempts
to draw the portrait of the beloved in vowels;
the struggle begins strenuous, boundless
as no horizon seems to emerge behind a first consonant.
No depth yet, curves become alive along the lines
of a notebook from a land far far away unintelligible;
no breath yet, yet so much to give in a depth intimate
on a single plane an existence unimaginable.
Will she remain there, silent, in sleeplike stance?
Will he take her hand, and bring her out of oblivion
apparent? Signs, symbols, mere letters of no meaning;
the tension rises and exhaustion follows .
Birth a most challenging event for him;
a vision made of thoughts, of dreams, of aspirations;
words will trace the line of a pupil dark in blue;
memories to come have made up their mind.
The eye, opened doorway to her universe complete
will suffice to grant all allowances to the seeking heart;
no depth required, for she is in parallel lines whole,
unmistakably self, certainly she, likely with him.
Another line hesitates, and jumps in jolly pirouettes;
without an aim, no purpose needed, where she lives;
strings of a cello, harmony of a violin, sweet breeze,
the page shifts softly to another verse, single or many.
A giggle, a soft echo, perhaps even a charming breath,
and seemingly not a soul to see, behind the sheet
of parchment, velum, space into time unknown;
angel, ghost, apparition, kitten agile, now gone.
Her hair shines in song deep in the dark lines traced
near the blue, and vanishes perhaps, to the gaze,
but it continues to brush, with a beat in the air
to the next line, shoulder, smooth, and determined.
Da Vinci’s girl, saint to men, coy, lost, a little weary,
laugh, little breath, a page of its own will do;
a touch to her hips, the length of her limbs;
her soul lies there, nude, vulnerable, peaceful.
It will take forever, it will find no end here nor there;
the adventure continues, real, so very real
in intent dreams, hands held in ink and pastels,
hearts one in dust of stars and charcoals.
The kiss is wide, it is at God’s measure, of His making;
it unites and it unifies, silently, absent from human sight
the source of an era irresolute, the birth is virgin;
it is original, it remains mine and yours, and that is all.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and more than two dozens other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than seventy other publications.